ronanear 


DEMJLLE 
BURTON 


The  Reviewers  speak  in  the  highest  praise  of 

STRONGHEART 

BY 

FREDERICK    R  BURTON 


"Vital,  significant,  entertaining.  Unique  in  its  class.  There 
a«e  scenes  in  the  book  unexcelled  in  any  picture  of  human  life." 

— New  York  Times  Saturday  Review. 

"As  a  novel  it  is  entitled  to  be  read  for  entertainment,  and  as  a 
study  of  Indian  character  it  is  a  scientific  offering." 

— Boston  Evening  Transcript. 

"The  admirers  of  Fenimore  Cooper  will  be  delighted  to  Me 
their  fallen  gods  erect  again." — Manchester  (Eng.)  Guardian. 

"A  great  story,  great  enough  to  take  a  place  with  the  distin- 
guished fiction  of  the  year." — New  Haven  Register. 

"Charming  and  readable." — St.  Paul  Pioneer  Prett. 

"A  strong  story." — Buffalo  Exprest. 

"  Thoroughly  entertaining." — Grand  Rapids  Prttt. 

" Charmingly  written." — Pittsburg  Post. 

"  Interesting  and  authoritative." — Syracuse  Herald. 

"Close-knit,  vital,  it  gives  a  unique  light  on  Indian  life  and 
ideals.  All  the  Indians  of  the  story  stand  out  with  a  rude  humanity, 
in  strong  contrast  to  the  pallid  glamor  of  the  Pocahontas-Ramona 
type,  or  the  lurid  chromatics  of  the  Buffalo  Bill  brand." 

—  The  Delineator. 

I2trw,  Cloth  bound,  Illustrated,  $1.50. 


G.W.  DILLINGHAM  CO.,  Publishers,  NEW  YORK 


0?  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  ANGELES 


"I  LAID  DOWN  THE  CAMERA  AND  UKABBED  THE  RIFLE." 

Frontispiece.    Page  41. 


STRONGHEART 

A  Novel  by 
FREDERICK  R.  BURTON 

Founded  on  WILLIAM    C.  de    MILLB'S    Play 


Illustrations  by 
CLARENCE  ROWE 


G.  W.  DILLINGHAM   COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW   YORK 


Copyright,  1908.  by 
O.  W.  DILLJNGHAM  COMPANY 

Issued  Sept.  18th,  1906 

Second  printing  Sept.  24th, 

Third  printing  Oct.  2nd, 

Fourth  printing  Nov.  24th. 


Strongheort 


CONTENTS 

PARTI:    SAVAGERY 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  In  the  Land  of  the  Ojibways o 

II.  "We  Are  All  Men" 20 

III.  The  Camera  Fiend 32 

IV.  Impressions  of  Soangetaha 44 

V.  The  Uselessness  of  Education 54 

VI.  The  Square-Dealers  ;  67 

VII.  Conspirators  for  Justice 87 

VIII.  Chief  Kiwetin,  the  Debater 104 

IX.  Strongheart's  Ultimatum 115 

X.  Dick  to  Dorothy 131 

PART  II:    CIVILIZATION 

XI.  Dorothy 144 

XII.  On  the  Quadrangle 163 

XIII.  The  Nocturne  in  G  Major 167 

XIV.  The  Song  of  Elopement 191 

XV.  Thome's  Ground  for  Jealousy 212 

XVI.  An  Experiment  that  Failed 222 

XVII.  Livingston's  Losing  Battle 241 

XVIII.  Strongheart's  Dream  254 

XIX.  The  Plotter 273 

XX.  The  Gambler's  Chance 287 

XXI.  The  Penalty  of  Friendship 296 

XXII.  Race  Prejudice 312 

XXIII.  Everywhere  the  Same  Wall 335 

SEQUEL 

XXIV.  The  Chief 34^ 

XXV.  Tribal  Concessions 361 

XXVI.  The  White  Squaw 37^ 

XXVII.  The  Horns  of  a  Moose 383 


2129316 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PACK 

"I  laid  down  the  camera  and  grabbed  the  rifle."     Frontispiece  41 

Strongheart  caught  the  white  man  by  the  throat 8l 

His  face  as  grare  as  if  he  were  performing  a  sacred  ceremony.  ±04 

Was  it  to  hear  this  that  he  had  traveled  so  many  hundred  miles  ?  373 


STRONGHEART 

Part  I  ; 

SAVAGERY 

CHAPTER  I 

X 
IN   THE   LAND  OF   THE   OJIBWAYS 

Just  north  of  Lakes  Huron  and  Superior  there  is 
a  country  wherein  even  now  the  enthusiastic  ex- 
plorer may  find  hills  and  valleys  never  before  trod  by 
the  foot  of  the  white  man,  lakes  not  yet  seen  by  the 
white  man's  eye,  rivers  whereon  no  craft  has  floated 
save  the  Ojibway's  bark  canoe. 

There,  deer,  and  moose,  and  elk  abound  to  lure 
men  of  wealth  to  their  slaughter ;  there  stand  yet  vast 
tracts  of  white  pine,  sturdy  guardians  of  earth's  deep- 
est serenity,  to  lure  the  timberman,  advance  guard  of 
civilization,  to  their  destruction ;  there  lie  doubtless 
mineral  secrets  which  some  day  will  be  exposed  to 
the  clamor  of  stamp  mills  and  the  frontier  saloon ; 
there  the  venturesome  holiday-maker  from  the  cities 
of  the  United  States  may  still  stumble  upon  the 
rude  dwellings  of  unregistered  Indians  who  some- 

9 


STRONGHEART 

times  travel  as  far  as  the  railroad  and  then  retire  to 
their  silent  haunts,  affrighted  at  the  noisy  terrors  of 
civilization;  a  land,  it  seems,  where  Nature  has  made 
her  last  stand  in  the  course  of  her  enforced  retreat 
to  the  snow-bound  regions  of  the  North. 

It  was  in  this  land  that  a  young  man  traveled 
southward  by  canoe  one  midsummer  afternoon.  Lit- 
tle he  had  to  exercise  the  paddle,  save  to  guide  his 
frail  craft,  for  the  current  bore  him  swiftly  while  it 
chuckled  to  listening  banks  of  its  burden.  The  trees 
on  either  side  touched  leafy  hands  and  whispered  of 
it.  Here  and  there  a  gray-bearded  cliff  frowned 
gravely  at  the  traveler  and,  it  may  be,  sent  some  mes- 
sage thrilling  beneath  the  soil  in  warning  to  brethren 
battling  with  the  stream  where  it  bends  to  avoid  a 
hill  and  fights  its  impetuous  way  among  and  over  im- 
peding rocks.  They  knew,  these  ancient  cliffs  and 
towering  trees,  what  punishment  the  river  had  in 
store  for  him  who  presumed  to  make  it  do  his  bid- 
ding. Time  had  been  when  dare-devil  natives  of  the 
wilds  had  shot  the  rapids  to  win  a  wager,  or  prove 
courage,  and  so  gain  a  feather  for  the  bonnet;  there 
had  been  now  and  again  a  hero  of  the  wilderness  who 
had  dodged  the  rocks  and  leaped  the  falls  in  safety, 
but  so  few  were  they  that  the  natives  of  this  day 
knew  them  only  by  legendary  names,  and  trusted  not 
themselves  to  the  hazardous  attempt;  what,  then, 
should  this  traveler,  whose  face  showed  the  pallor  of 
a  strange  people  beneath  its  temporary  bronze,  hope 
to  accomplish  save  his  own  destruction?  The  river, 
excited  with  the  joy  of  it,  began  to  laugh. 

10 


STRONG  PI  EART 

The  young  man  raised  his  head  at  the  sound.  He 
peered  forward,  not  so  much  in  anxiety  as  in  curi- 
osity. Some  suggestion  of  prudence  led  him  to  glance 
at  the  banks  for  a  possible  landing-place.  He  saw 
none  where  he  could  stop  with  safety  to  his  craft,  for 
already  the  current  leaped  with  him,  and  it  might 
have  been  impossible  even  to  turn  the  canoe  to  shore. 
So  he  set  his  lips  in  a  smile  of  determination,  and  poised 
himself  to  apply  the  paddle  swiftly  and  powerfully  to 
evade  such  obstacles  as  might  appear  before  him. 

It  was  where  the  Pangisibi  ("Little  River,"  as  the 
natives  call  it)  tears  madly  through  half  a  circle  in 
order  to  force  its  way  past  the  barrier  of  hills.  The 
descent  grows  steeper  and  steeper,  until,  rounding  the 
last  arc  of  the  curve,  there  is  a  short  plunge  almost 
like  a  cascade  that  brings  the  stream  triumphantly 
to  a  pool  where  the  water  boils  with  ever-decreasing 
violence,  and,  spreading  wide  over  the  new-found 
level,  chatters  at  last  of  its  victory  to  half  submerged 
stones  that  form  a  natural  and  easy  ford  for  the  rare 
travelers  who  have  need  of  it. 

Two  men,  each  bearing  a  rifle,  emerged  from  the 
forest  on  the  east  side  of  the  ford,  and  proceeded  to 
cross  it.  One  was  under  the  medium  height,  and  his 
clothes  sat  loosely  on  him — soft  hat,  black  shirt, 
shabby  trousers  and  moccasins ;  the  other  tall,  com- 
manding in  mien,  carried  the  hall  marks  of  civiliza- 
tion even  into  the  depths  of  the  wilderness  in  that 
he  wore  shoes  of  dressed  leather,  and  garbed  his  body 
and  limbs  in  the  picturesque  habiliments  affected  by 
the  sportsman  from  the  city.  The  tall  man  walked 

11 


STRONGHEART 

first,  and  his  steps  were  as  sure  on  the  scattered 
stones  as  those  of  his  moccasined  companion.  They 
were  proceeding  silently  along  the  open  space  beside 
the  pool  on  the  western  side,  when  the  short  man 
suddenly  caught  the  other  by  the  arm  and  pointed  to 
the  white-flecked  turmoil  below  the  falls.  They  saw 
an  overturned  canoe  floating  toward  the  shallows, 
and  a  human  head  sinking  near  it. 

There  was  a  startled  exclamation  from  the  tall 
man,  a  brief  word  of  command,  and  each  dropped 
his  rifle.  He  of  the  moccasins  ran  swiftly  back  to 
the  ford,  waded  in,  and,  tenderly  as  one  might  care 
for  a  suffering  child,  kept  the  canoe  from  rubbing 
against  the  stones,  lifted  it  and  bore  it,  dripping, 
upside  down,  over  his  head  to  the  open  space,  and 
laid  it  gently  upon  the  grass.  He  glanced  toward 
his  companion,  but,  perceiving  no  need  of  assistance, 
gave  his  attention  wholly  to  the  canoe,  pressing  the 
frail  bark  here  and  there  with  his  knuckles,  and  shak- 
ing his  head  gravely  as  he  found  abundant  signs  of 
damage. 

The  tall  man  was  in  the  pool.  He  had  leaped 
straight  in,  and  had  swam  half  way  across  while  the 
other  was  running  to  the  ford.  In  the  middle  he  sank 
for  a  moment,  and  when  he  reappeared  he  had  the 
unfortunate  canoeist  under  the  shoulders.  Using  his 
left  arm  to  keep  the  young  man's  head  above  water, 
he  propelled  himself  with  his  right,  and  so  gained 
the  bank.  He  laid  the  man  on  the  grass,  and  turned 
him  on  his  face,  working  over  him  with  more  energy 
than  knowledge  of  the  most  approved  modern  meth- 

12 


STRONGHEART 

ods  of  first  aid;  but  there  was  virtue  in  the  ancient, 
crude  ways,  and  in  this  instance  the  signs  of  anima- 
tion on  the  part  of  the  subject  were  speedily  mani- 
fested. When  the  tall  man  observed  them,  he  called 
to  his  companion,  and  hastened  to  a  spot  a  few  yards 
further  up  stream  where  a  quantity  of  charred  wood 
gave  evidence  of  former  camps.  It  was,  indeed,  a 
favorite  halting-place  for  travelers  in  the  wilderness, 
and  had  been  so,  undoubtedly,  since  ages  before  au- 
thentic history  began.  There  was  dry  wood  now 
within  reach,  a  few  sticks  only,  but  enough  for  a  be- 
ginning, and  kindling  was  supplied  by  bark  stripped 
quickly  from  a  birch  tree.  The  tall  man  produced 
matches  from  a  metal  box  that  the  water  had  not 
penetrated,  and  set  the  flames  sputtering  over  the 
bark ;  then  he  ran  here  and  there,  gathering  other  bits 
of  wood  and  placing  them  on  the  fire. 

Meantime,  he  of  the  moccasins  left  the  canoe  with 
apparent  reluctance,  for  what  more  interesting  and 
important  can  there  be  to  the  O  jib  way  than  a  bark 
canoe  which  has  been  serviceable  and  may  yet  be 
restored  to  usefulness?  and  stooped  over  the  half 
drowned  traveler.  There  was  nothing  to  do  for 
him  except  to  let  life  resume  its  full  activity  unim- 
peded, whereas  skillful  hands  might  at  least  prepare 
the  pitch  for  mending  the  canoe.  The  traveler  lay 
with  eyes  closed,  but  he  was  breathing,  «and  presently 
he  made  a  convulsive  movement  as  if  he  would 
get  up. 

"Dorothy!"  he  gasped,  as  he  looked  vaguely  about 
him,  and  clutched  at  the  grass.  Then  his  features 

13 


5  T  R  O  N  G  H  E  A  R  T 

contorted  with  an  expression  of  acute  pain,  and  he 
sank  back  again. 

The  watcher  called  to  his  companion,  and  the  tall 
man  came  on  the  run.  A  few  words  passed,  and  he 
of  the  moccasins  obediently  took  up  the  other's  task 
of  attending  to  the  fire.  Again  the  eyes  of  the  canoeist 
opened,  but  this  time  he  did  not  try  to  rise.  He 
looked  wearily  at  the  man  who  bent  over  him. 

"Feeling  all  right  now?"  asked  the  rescuer. 

"I  can  breathe,"  was  the  reply. 

"Yes,  that's  better  than  a  stomach  full  of  water, 
isn't  it?  Will  you  try  to  get  up?  It  will  be  better 
for  you,  you  know,  if  you  can  exercise  a  little.  I'll 
help." 

So  saying,  he  put  his  hands  under  the  canoeist's 
shoulders  and  lifted,  but  immediately  laid  the  man 
down  again,  for  a  half  suppressed  groan,  and  the 
twitching  of  face  muscles  showed  that  there  had  been 
painful  injury  somewhere. 

"Better  let  me  lie  still  awhile,"  said  the  canoeist, 
very  white,  and  speaking  with  difficulty. 

"Where  does  it  hurt?" 

"Feet  and  ankles." 

"All  right  above?" 

"I  think  so." 

"Then  you'll  be  all  right  soon.  Feet  will  get  well, 
but  I'll  take  off  your  shoes.  There  may  be  a  swell- 
ing by  and  by,  you  know,  which  would  be  worse 
with  shoes  on,  and  then  we  should  have  to  cut  the 
shoes  off,  which  would  be  bad  in  this  country  where 
there  isn't  a  store  at  every  corner." 

i : 


STRONGHEART 

The  rescuer  applied  his  fingers  swiftly  to  the  young 
man's  shoe-laces,  and  presently  bared  his  feet.  "Yes," 
he  said,  thoughtfully,  "there's  some  damage  there. 
Well,  if  you  can't  walk,  and  so  get  exercise,  the  next 
best  thing  is  to  get  heat.  I'll  carry  you  to  the  fire." 

"Great  Scott!"  exclaimed  the  , young  man,  feebly, 
"got  a  fire  ?  Did  you  have  it  all  ready  for  me  ?" 

The  other  made  no  reply,  but  picked  him  up  and 
carried  him  to  the  fire  and  placed  him  on  the  ground 
with  his  back  to  a  log  and  his  feet  toward  the  blaze. 
The  little  journey  caused  the  canoeist  some  pain,  but 
he  bore  it  without  groan  or  comment  now  that  his 
consciousness  had  fully  returned.  "You're  wet  your- 
self," said  he,  catching  his  breath  a  bit.  "Did  you 
jump  in  there  after  me?"  and  he  turned  his  gaze 
toward  the  pool. 

"I  had  to,"  said  the  other. 

"Because  I  wouldn't  float  to  the  shore?  I'm  sure 
Fm  obliged  to  you.  Confound  it!  I  don't  remember 
that  I  ever  had  my  life  saved  before.  See  here,  you 
need  the  fire  as  much  as  I  do,  don't  you?" 

"No.  I  can  keep  moving.  It  doesn't  hurt  a  woods- 
man to  get  wet." 

He  had  removed  his  coat  and  was  wringing  the 
water  from  it.  "I'm  going  to  strip,"  he  continued 
tranquilly,  "and  hang  my  clothes  by  the  fire,  for 
they're  not  comfortable.  If  you  can  stand  it  you'd 
better  do  the  same.  I  mean,  if  you  can  get  your 
clothes  off.  I'll  help,  you  know.  The  danger  is  that 
you'll  catch  cold." 

"Sure,"  said  the  canoeist,  but  there  was  doubt  in  his 
15 


STRONGH'EART 

tone  in  spite  of  the  confident  word,  for  he  was  begin- 
ning to  think  again,  and  he  wondered  how  he  could 
avoid  a  cold  if  he  lay  naked  while  his  clothes  were 
drying;  and  beyond  that,  what  was  to  happen  to 
him  if  the  excruciating  pain  in  his  ankles  did  not 
cease?  He  was  puzzled  rather  than  anxious,  but, 
when  he  looked  all  around  as  if  to  seek  an  answer  to 
his  queries,  he  saw  a  man  standing  at  the  eastern 
end  of  the  ford,  and  immediately  his  mind  was  ab- 
sorbed in  other  matters  than  his  narrow  escape  from 
drowning  and  the  discomforts  of  his  situation.  "By 
Jove!"  he  exclaimed,  "there's  Dossegay!" 

The  tall  man  looked  toward  the  ford,  and,  as  he 
did  so,  the  man  there  began  to  cross. 

"He's  a  drunken  redskin  I  employed,"  added  the 
canoeist,  by  way  of  explanation.  "I  was  chasing  him 
when  I  upset — that  is,  I  was  going  to  the  place  where 
I  left  him  this  morning,  but  I  didn't  expect  to  find 
him  there,  or  ever  see  him  again." 

There  was  no  response  from  the  tall  man,  who 
stood  with  his  back  to  the  canoeist,  and  neither  spoke 
again  until  Dossegay  halted  a  few  yards  from  the 
fire.  Then  Dossegay  said  something  in  his  native 
tongue,  and  the  tall  man  answered  him  in  the  same 
language.  Dossegay  spoke  at  some  length,  and  at  the 
end  took  from  his  coat  a  large  pocketbook  and  handed 
it  to  the  tall  man  who,  in  turn,  gave  it  to  the  canoeist. 

"I  see  you  understand  the  redskin's  lingo,"  said 
the  canoeist,  with  a  touch  of  admiration  in  his  tone. 
"My  guide  does,  too." 

"Yes,  I  understand  them,"  the  tall  man  responded 
16 


5  T  R  O  N  G  H  E  A  R  T 

The  canoeist  eagerly  opened  the  pocketbook  and 
took  from  it  a  photograph  and  a  letter.  He  glanced 
at  them,  made  sure  quickly  that  they  were  what  they 
should  be,  replaced  them  in  their  compartment,  and 
laid  the  book  on  the  ground  beside  him.  There  was 
the  light  of  deep  satisfaction  in  his  eyes,  and  a  faint 
color  on  his  cheek. 

"Is  your  money  all  right  ?"  asked  the  tall  man. 

"Oh!"  and  the  canoeist's  tone  seemed  to  convey  an 
apology  for  having  overlooked  such  a  detail.  He 
picked  up  the  pocketbook,  opened  it  again  and  with- 
drew a  considerable  packet  of  banknotes.  "Not  a 
dollar  gone,"  he  said,  after  counting. 

"I  thought  so,"  was  the  tall  man's  comment.  "The 
Ojibway  may  get  drunk,  but  he  doesn't  steal.  Dosse- 
gay,"  he  continued,  "says  he  expects  to  get  the  sack 
for  what  he  did,  and  he  wasn't  following  you  up  in 
any  hope  of  keeping  his  job;  but  when  he  came  to 
himself  after  you  had  gone,  he  found  your  pocket- 
book  on  the  ground  where  your  tent  was,  and  he 
thought  you  would  want  it.  So  he  hit  the  trail  after 
you.  He  would  have  gone  on  v.  -  ^at  seeing  you 
here,  for  the  trail  is  on  the  other  side  of  the  river, 
but  he  saw  and  smelt  the  smoke  of  our  fire,  and  he 
turned  aside  to  see  what  was  up.  That's  his  story." 

"See  here,  Dossegay,"  cried  the  canoeist,  "you  don't 
get  the  sack,  see  ?  You  stay,  stick,  hang  on,  you  don't 
lose  your  job,  savvy?  I  say,  mister,  tell  him  that  in 
his  own  lingo  so  he'll  sure  catch  on,  will  you  ?" 

The  tall  man  complied  gravely,  Dossegay  listening 
without  the  slightest  change  of  facial  expression,  and 

17 


STRONGHEART 

at  the  end  of  a  short  conversation  he  looked  toward 
the  canoeist  and  said  "Migwetch" — thank  you — quite 
as  if  he  were  offering  condolences  for  a  death  in  the 
family.  Then,  said  the  tall  man,  "He  will  stay,  and 
he  will  change  clothes  with  you.  He's  near  enough 
to  your  size  to  make  it  possible  to  get  into  his  clothes, 
and  yours  will  dry  very  soon  when  we  rig  them  up 
by  the  fire.  After  that  he'd  better  go  on  and  tell 
your  friends  what  has  happened  to  you  and  where 
they  can  find  you.  We  won't  stay  here,  for  it  would 
be  risky  for  you.  Mukwa  and  I  will  carry  you  to 
our  camp.  It's  not  more  than  three  miles.  Your 
guide  will  know  how  to  find  it,  and  if  he  didn't  Dosse- 
gay  would  tell  him.  It's  what  your  people  would  call 
a  summer  resort.  My  people  go  there  every  season." 

"Your  people!"  echoed  the  canoeist,  in  a  tone  of 
the  profoundest  amazement,  and  he  looked  sharply  at 
his  rescuer.  "You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you're  an 
Indian !" 

"I  am  an  Ojibway,"  was  the  muffled  reply,  the  tall 
man's  voice  being:  momentarily  indistinct  because  he 
was  pulling  his  anirt  off  over  his  head.  He  stood 
wringing  the  water  from  the  garment,  and  the  canoeist 
saw  that  the  dark  hue  of  his  face,  which  he  had  sup- 
posed was  merely  the  deep  tan  of  constant  outdoor 
life,  continued  to  the  shoulders  and  broad  chest  which 
shone  in  the  afternoon  sun  as  if  the  man  were  a 
statue  of  burnished  copper.  "My  name  is  Soan- 
getaha,"  he  added.  "My  father  is  chief  of  the  tribe." 

The  canoeist  looked  at  the  Indian  in  silent  fascina- 
tion. It  was  clear  enough  now  what  race  was  his; 

18 


STRO  NGHEART 

now  that  the  features  were  scrutinized  analytically, 
the  facial  characteristics  of  the  red  man  were  plainly 
evident;  his  hair,  which  was  cut  rather  modishly,  was 
jet  black  and  coarse ;  that  might  have  revealed  his 
race  to  the  canoeist's  casual  glance  but  that  Soan- 
getaha,  who  had  thrown  off  his  hat  when  he  leaped 
into  the  pool,  had  put  it  on  again  immediately  after 
coming  out;  now  he  was  again  bareheaded. 

"What  a  build  for  an  athlete!"  was  the  canoeist's 
silent  comment,  as  he  admiringly  viewed  the  Indian's 
muscular  development.  "Not  an  ounce  of  surplus 
flesh  anywhere." 

"Soangetaha,"  he  said  aloud.  "That's  an  easier 
name  than  some  that  your  people  have.  I  suppose  it 
has  a  meaning,  hasn't  it?" 

"Yes;    your  people  would  call  it  Strongheart." 


19 


CHAPTER  II 
"WE  ARE  ALL  MEN" 

"I  like  that  better,"  said  the  canoeist,  ingeniously. 
"My  name  is  Livingston.  I  hope  I  didn't  say  any- 
thing offensive  about  your  people." 

"No,"  Strongheart  replied ;  "if  you  had,  your  quick 
forgiveness  of  Dossegay  would  have  made  it  right. 
We're  used  to  being  misunderstood  and  unappreci- 
ated. I  think  you'll  find  that  Dossegay  will  keep 
straight  the  rest  of  the  time  he  is  with  you,  and  I 
would  willingly  bet  that  he  got  started  on  his  drunk 
while  he  was  in  some  white-man  settlement." 

"You're  quite  right,  Strongheart.  We  picked  him 
up  in  the  Soo.  He  got  a  flask  there  and  carried  it 
with  him  unknown  to  us.  I  s'pose  he  reckoned  that 
it  would  be  a  long  time  between  drinks,  and  that  he'd 
better  make  the  most  of  his  opportunity.  Anyhow, 
yesterday  he  was  more  of  a  hindrance  than  a  help, 
and  this  morning  he  was  dead  to  the  world.  We 
could  do  nothing  with  him,  couldn't  even  wake  him, 
and  there  was  no  use  in  lugging  him  along.  So  we 
left  him  asleep  on  the  ground,  with  enough  grub  near 
to  last  him  for  a  day  or  so.  You  see,  I'm  making  a 
trip  with  another  fellow,  my  best  friend.  Frank  Nel- 
son is  his  name.  It's  just  for  the  fun  of  being  in 

20 


STRONGHEART 

the  woods,  with  a  little  fishing  and  hunting  thrown  in 
when  we  feel  like  it.  You  must  think  me  all  sorts 
of  a  fool  for  getting  upset  as  I  did." 
.  "I  should  say  your  guide  was  a  fool,  or  strangely 
ignorant,  for  letting  you  try  to  shoot  the  Pangisibi 
rapids." 

"Oh!  the  guide's  all  right.  Perhaps  you  know 
him,  Steve  Winterton." 

"Yes,  I  know  Winterton.  What  was  he  thinking 
of?  He  knows  the  Pangisibi  as  well  as  the  Ojib- 
ways — " 

"He  didn't  know  what  I  was  up  to,  Strongheart. 
I'll  tell  you  all  about  it,  for  I  want  the  blame  to  stick 
where  it  belongs,  on  me.  We  set  out  for  a  lake  Steve 
told  us  of  which  he  said  had  never  been  visited  by 
white  men.  He's  never  been  there  himself,  but  he 
knew  of  it,  he  said,  from  the  Indians.  I  s'pose  he 
wasn't  stringing  us,  was  he?" 

"Did  he  name  the  lake?"  Strongheart  asked. 

"Yes;  he  said  the  Indian  word  for  it  meant  Long 
Lake." 

"Ginsagaigan." 

"That  sounds  like  it.     Have  you  been  there?" 

"Yes.  I  think  Winterton  was  right.  I  never  heard 
of  white  men  going  to  it.  I  should  say  it  would  be 
four  days  from  here." 

"Well,  that  tallies  with  what  Steve  said.  Any- 
how, after  we  broke  camp  this  morning,  leaving  Dos- 
segay  behind  us,  we  paddled  up  stream  a  few  miles 
and  came  to  a  place  where  we  had  to  portage  our 
canoes  and  baggage.  I  presume  you  know  all  about  it  ?" 

21 


STRONGHEART 

Strongheart  nodded.  "The  place  where  you  began 
your  portage,"  said  he,  "was  not  more  than  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  below  here.  The  river  makes  a  long  curve 
among  the  hills.  You  hit  a  straight  trail  over  them 
and  struck  the  river  again  away  above  the  rapids." 

"I  can't  answer  for  the  straight  trail,"  said  Liv- 
ingston. "It  seemed  blamed  crooked  to  me,  but  we 
did  strike  the  river  again  all  right,  and  found  that  a 
tornado  had  been  there  before  us  and  had  raised  hob 
with  the  trail  both  on  land  and  water.  It  was  almost 
impossible  to  lug  the  canoes  over  the  last  dozen  yards 
or  so,  but  we  managed  it  and  found  a  tolerably  clear 
space  on  the  river  bank  where  we  had  to  stop  and 
think.  Steve  said  we'd  better  camp  there  for  tonight, 
for  it  might  take  him  and  Joe  the  rest  of  the  day  to 
find  a  way  around  the  difficulty.  We  had  grub,  and 
then  Steve  went  off  on  an  exploring  trip  on  one  side 
of  the  river,  and  Joe  found  a  place  where  he  could 
squirm  through  the  wreckage  on  the  other.  They 
agreed  that  they'd  be  back  a  long  time  before 
sundown,  and  Frank  and  I  settled  down  to  a  cosy 
afternoon.  He  went  to  pottering  with  his  camera, 
taking  shots  at  the  wreckage,  and  I — well,  I  had  some 
idea  of  writing  a  description  of  it,  'from  our  cor- 
respondent in  the  field/  you  know,  only  it  wouldn't 
have  been  for  publication.  But,  I — well,  I  reached 
for  my  pocketbook  to  consult  things  there,  just  a 
picture  of  a  girl,  and  a  letter,  you  know;  I  think  a 
good  deal  of  'em.  Naturally.  However,  I  reached 
for  the  pocketbook,  and  blamed  if  I  could  find  it. 
You  can  imagine  how  I  felt,  mebbe.  Of  course  Frank 

22 


STRONGHEART 

hadn't  seen  the  pocketbook,  and  he  was  dead  certain 
it  wasn't  mixed  up  with  the  baggage,  but  I  couldn't 
be  satisfied,  and  I  pulled  everything  to  pieces  before 
I  could  give  up  hunting  for  it.  Then  all  of  a  sudden 
I  had  a  fool  inspiration  and  knew  what  had  happened. 
'Frank,'  said  I,  'that  cussed  redskin,  Dossegay,  has  got 
it.'  You  see,  I  believed  that  Dossegay  had  stolen  the 
pocketbook  while  I  was  asleep,  and  had  pretended  to 
be  drunk  in  the  morning  just  so  that  we  would  leave 
him  there  and  give  him  a  good  chance  for  a  get- 
away." 

"If  he  had  stolen  it  in  the  night,"  Strongheart 
suggested,  "he  would  have  had  his  chance  for  a  get- 
away then.  He  could  have  gone  down  stream  in  one 
of  the  canoes,  and  scuttled  the  other  so  that  you 
would  have  had  difficulty  in  pursuing;  and  he  could 
have  left  the  canoe  after  a  few  miles  to  float  on  down 
stream  while  he  took  to  the  woods  on  foot.  Unless 
your  Joe  could  have  happened  to  scent  his  steps  at 
the  very  spot  where  he  left  the  canoe,  you  never  could 
have  come  upon  his  trail  except  by  accident." 

Livingston  listened  with  an  expression  of  solemn 
sheepishness.  "I  told  you  it  was  a  fool  inspiration," 
said  he.  "I  never  thought  of  anything  but  my  own 
smart  theory  that  he  had  faked  his  drunkenness,  and 
I  immediately  had  an  attack  of  energy.  Dossegay 
had  no  canoe.  Therefore,  I  reasoned,  he  must  foot 
it  back,  and  I  reckoned  that  I  could  travel  down 
stream  in  a  canoe  a  good  deal  faster  than  he  could 
walk,  or  run.  Especially,  you  see,  as  I  knew  there 
was  a  swift  current  where  the  river  makes  the  long 

23 


STRONGHEART 

bend.  Steve  hadn't  told  us  much  about  it.  Simply 
said  we  couldn't  paddle  against  the  current.  Fact 
is,  Steve's  a  good  deal  like  the  Indians;  he  doesn't 
seem  to  care  about  talking — I  beg  your  pardon  again. 
I  don't  mean  any  offense  by  that.  There  are  plenty 
of  white  men  whom  I  should  like  better  if  they  would 
take  pattern  from  the  Indians  and  cultivate  silence. 
But,  you  see,  the  fact  is  I  find  it  hard  to  remember 
that  you're  an  Indian.  You  seem  just  like — like  the 
rest  of  us,"  and  Livingston  smiled  at  the  lameness  of 
his  conclusion. 

Strongheart's  features  were  quite  as  impassive  as 
those  of  Mukwa  and  Dossegay,  who  were  cutting 
forked  stakes  and  thrusting  them  into  the  ground 
near  the  fire.  The  animation  he  had  displayed  during 
Livingston's  first  moments  of  returning  conscious- 
ness had  departed,  and  for  the  moment  he  seemed  to 
have  taken  on,  or  relapsed  into  the  stolidity  of  the 
traditional  aborigine.  But  he  responded  to  the  white 
man's  last  observation.  "We  are  all  men,"  said  he. 

"That's  it!"  cried  Livingston,  "that's  it!  and  the 
trouble  is  that  fool  whites  sometimes  overlook  that 
fact,  don't  they  ?  But,"  as  the  Indian  made  no  further 
response,  "to  get  on  with  my  particular  folly,  I  de- 
cided to  try  and  overhaul  Dossegay.  Frank  advised 
letting  the  money  go.  He  had  his  roll  safe,  and  we 
were  where  we  couldn't  spend  money,  you  know,  and 
if  we  got  where  we  needed  it  we  hadn't  any  doubt 
that  we  could  get  more  by  telegraphing  home.  But, 
you  see,  it  wasn't  the  money  I  cared  so  much  about. 
I  didn't  stop  to  do  much  thinking,  but  just  hopped 

24 


5  T  R  0  N  G  H  E  A  R  T 

into  the  canoe  and  shoved  off.  It  went  all  right  for 
some  time,  and  I  really  thought  I  was  going  to  make 
it,  when  all  of  a  sudden  I  was  simply  pitched  out, 
neck  and  crop!  I  saw  the  canoe  turn  square  over, 
and  I  guess  I  don't  know  what  happened  after  that." 

"You  probably  bumped  your  head  against  a  rock." 

Livingston  ran  his  fingers  over  his  cranium.  "Guess 
that's  so,"  he  said;  "I  hadn't  thought  of  it  before, 
but  there  is  a  sore  spot  there." 

"You  were  very  lucky  to  escape  being  killed  in- 
stantly." 

"I  was  luckier  still  because  you  were  waiting  for 
me.  Do  you  make  it  a  habit  to  watch  at  the  foot  of  the 
rapids  for  white  men  who  think  they  know  a  whole 
lot  that  isn't  so?"  Livingston  laughed  a  little.  "You 
see,"  he  added,  "I  haven't  begun  to  tell  you  how 
grateful  I  am.  I  don't  seem  to  know  how.  I  am 
quite  aware  that  you  saved  my  life — " 

"I  can't  see  that  there's  anything  to  say  about  it," 
Strongheart  interrupted,  in  a  tone  that  implied  his 
wish  to  dismiss  the  subject.  "You  wouldn't  expect 
one  man  to  let  another  drown,  would  you?  If  I  had 
done  that,  there  might  have  been  something  to  say." 

"In  which  case  I  shouldn't  have  been  the  fellow  to 
say  it,"  retorted  Livingston,  and  he  laughed  lightly 
again,  noting  with  curious  interest  that  there  was  no 
responsive  smile  on  Strongheart's  part. 

Livingston's  narrative  had  not  been  as  uninter- 
rupted as  it  appears  to  be  in  this  account  of  it;  for, 
during  the  first  part,  Strongheart  had  helped  divest 
him  of  his  wet  clothes  and  put  on  the  dry  ones  of 

25 


STRONCHEART 

Dossegay.  At  the  end,  both  Strongheart  and  Dosse- 
gay  were  sitting,  quite  like  primitive  savages,  their 
faces  to  the  fire,  their  backs  to  the  hot  sun,  while  two 
suits  of  clothes  were  steaming,  laid  across  poles  rest- 
ing on  the  forked  stakes  that  Mukwa  and  Dossegay 
had  provided.  Strongheart  spoke  to  Dossegay  in 
O  jib  way.  They  seemed  to  have  a  brief  argument, 
after  which  Dossegay  arose,  took  his  moccasins  in 
one  hand  and  went  to  the  bank  of  the  pool.  He  let 
himself  slowly  into  the  water,  and  then  swam  across, 
holding  the  moccasins  above  his  head  all  the  way. 
This  done,  he  flicked  the  water  from  his  feet  with  his 
hands,  put  on  the  moccasins,  and  disappeared  in  the 
forest. 

"What  does  all  that  mean?"  asked  Livingston,  who 
had  watched  the  proceeding  with  increasing  wonder- 
ment. 

"Winterton  and  Joe  will  be  badly  scared  when  they 
get  back  to  your  camp  and  learn  what  has  happened. 
They'll  be  sure  you  are  dead,"  said  Strongheart. 
"They  may  be  back  now,  for  the  afternoon  is  most 
over.  Dossegay  has  hit  the  trail  to  relieve  their 
anxiety  as  soon  as  possible.  He  may  meet  them  com- 
ing back,  for  of  course  they'll  begin  a  search  for  you 
at  once.  Wherever  he  finds  them,  he'll  let  them  know 
where  you  are,  and  they'll  join  you  before  the  night 
is  old.  Dossegay  will  take  them  to  our  summer  vil- 
lage. You  won't  do  any  walking  for  at  least  a  week, 
and  when  you  are  well,  if  you  still  want  to  go  on  to 
Long  Lake  there's  a  trail  from  the  village  that  we 
can  show  you.  If  you  don't  care  to  stay  with  us 

26 


STRON  GHEART 

until  you  can  walk,  Winterton  and  Joe  can  take  you 
back  to  the  Soo,  or  anywhere  else." 

"Don't  mention  it!"  cried  Livingston;  "I  should 
like  nothing  better  than  to  recuperate  in  your  village, 
if  you'll  let  me." 

"You  will  be  welcome." 

"Thanks,  but  you  haven't  satisfied  my  curiosity 
about  Dossegay.  He  went  off  without  anything  on — " 

"He  took  his  moccasins  to  protect  his  feet.  That 
is  all  he  needs.  I  told  him  I  thought  your  friends 
ought  to  be  notified  in  a  hurry,  and  he  agreed  with 
me." 

"But  I  thought  it  was  agreed  that  he  should  wear 
my  clothes." 

"They  are  still  wet,  you  see.  He  didn't  care  to 
wait  for  them  to  dry.  He's  all  right.  And  he  thought 
you'd  be  better  pleased  if  your  clothes  were  kept  for 
yourself." 

Livingston  said,  "Well,  by  Jove!"  and  attempted 
no  more  lucid  expression  on  the  subject,  but  his 
thoughts  were  remarkably  active.  There  was  an  un- 
expectedness about  the  red  man's  fine  feeling  that 
fairly  made  him  gasp.  He  began  to  rejoice  at  the  acci- 
dent that  had  brought  him  into  such  intimate  contact 
with — what?  "We  are  all  men,"  Strongheart  had 
said.  Why  should  a  manly  act  on  the  part  of  an 
Indian  be  unexpected?  Livingston  was  not  altogether 
clear  about  it,  in  which  respect  he  was  not  different 
from  many  another  white  man  of  more  years  when 
he  comes  to  his  first  knowledge  at  first  hand  of  Indian 
character. 

27 


STRONGHEART 

"Why  did  Dossegay  swim  across,  instead  of  taking 
to  the  ford?"  asked  Livingston. 

Strongheart  smiled  faintly  as  he  replied,  "He  said 
he  would  feel  more  like  running  if  he  had  the  chill 
of  the  water." 

There  was  a  buzz  of  questions  in  Livingston's  brain, 
but  he  did  not  ask  them.  How  came  it  that  Strong- 
heart  had  such  command  of  English?  What  was  the 
personal  history  of  the  man  whose  thoughts  seemed 
to  be  those  of  civilization,  and  who  yet  was  manifestly 
a  dweller  in  the  wilderness  ?  How  did  he  live  ?  What 
was  his  occupation?  And  so  on;  but  Livingston 
found  himself  possessed  by  diffidence.  He  could  not 
question  this  man  as  if  he  were  a  child,  or  an  un- 
tutored savage  like  Dossegay  and  Joe.  There  was 
something  in  Strongheart's  manner,  even  when  he 
sat  undisguised  by  garments  of  civilization,  or  sav- 
agery, which  forbade  anything  that  smacked  of  in- 
quisitiveness.  Livingston  could  only  guess  what  it 
was,  for  he  was  young  and  little  given  to  analysis; 
bat  he  observed  the  sombre  cast  of  Strongheart's 
features,  and  he  suspected  unexpressed  offense  at 
some  of  the  things  which  the  white  man  had  said. 

"I  made  a  break  pretty  nearly  every  time  I  spoke 
of  Indians,"  thought  Livingston,  ruefully,  "and  I  sup- 
pose that  makes  him  tired." 

As  there  seemed  to  be  no  other  way  to  account  for 
the  Indian's  silence,  Livingston  decided  that  it  would 
be  the  safest  policy  to  refrain  from  opening  a  con- 
versation. So  he  covertly  watched  the  man,  for  the 
Indian  fascinated  him  more  now  than  at  the  begin- 

28 


STRONGHEART 

ning,  and,  as  he  looked,  Livingston  began  to  be  im- 
pressed by  the  singular  nobility  of  Strongheart's 
features.  Often  enough  he  had  heard  the  phrase, 
"The  noble  red  man,"  uttered  always  in  a  tone  of 
humorous  disparagement,,  and  not  once  had  it 
occurred  to  him  to  question  what  was  the  origin  of 
the  phrase,  or  whether  it  had  any  serious  justification. 
Certainly  until  now  he  had  never  seen  an  Indian  who 
deserved  it,  but  Strongheart,  so  far  as  appearances 
went,  fulfilled  the  demands  of  the  characterization. 
His  forehead  was  broad  and  high,  his  nose  aquiline 
and  large  enough  to  be  an  element  of  strength  in  the 
composition  of  his  face,  mouth  and  chin  were  of 
classic  mold,  the  cheeks,  despite  the  high  bone,  were 
rounded,  and  the  man's  eyes,  severe,  almost  morose 
in  repose,  softened  wonderfully  when  he  smiled,  and 
suggested  an  exceptionally  affectionate  nature. 

"He's  a  stunner,"  was  Livingston's  conclusion,  and 
doubtless  no  other  summary  could  tell  as  much  with 
as  much  accuracy  and  brevity. 

Mukwa  occupied  himself  in  replenishing  the  fire, 
turning  the  drying  garments,  and  paying  visits  of 
critical  inspection  to  the  canoe.  At  length,  evidently 
obedient  to  a  brief  suggestion  from  Strongheart,  he 
went  into  the  woods  whence  he  returned  shortly  with 
two  freshly  cut  poles  about  seven  feet  in  length. 
Then  he  brought  boughs  of  tamarack,  cedar,  and 
balsam,  and  laid  them,  with  the  rifles,  across  the  poles 
so  as  to  form  a  litter.  Strongheart  put  on  all  bis 
clothes,  except  his  coat,  which  he  reserved  for  a  pillow, 
laying  it  over  Livingston's  imperfectly  dried  garments 

29 


5  T  R  O  N  G  H  E  A  R  T 

"It's  time  to  go,"  said  the  Indian.  "It  will  be  slow 
work,  and  you  may  not  be  able  to  stand  it  without 
resting  pretty  often.  But  I  think  we  can  get  there 
before  dark." 

"You  mustn't  stop  to  rest  on  my  account,"  Living- 
ston responded;  "it's  humiliating  to  have  to  go  on  a 
litter." 

"Can't  be  helped,"  said  Strongheart,  and,  without 
further  ado,  he  lifted  the  white  man  to  the  fragrant 
bed. 

Mukwa  took  the  foot  and  walked  ahead.  "Are  you 
easy?"  asked  Strongheart,  looking  straight  down  into 
Livingston's  eyes  from  his  position  at  the  head  of 
the  litter. 

"Yes,  indeed!"  Livingston  answered  gratefully. 
"It  couldn't  be  better.  You've  turned  my  accident 
into  a  luxury.  I'm  only  sorry  for  you  men." 

"You  needn't  be.    You'd  do  the  same  for  us." 

The  way  led  for  at  least  three  quarters  of  the  dis- 
tance continuously  upward,  and  always  in  the  woods. 
There  was  no  conversation.  Whenever  Mukwa 
wanted  to  rest,  he  simply  stopped,  and  the  carriers 
lowered  the  litter  to  the  ground  with  the  utmost  care. 
It  was  apparent  that  Mukwa's  need  of  resting  was  not 
for  want  of  breath  or  muscular  endurance,  but  hun- 
ger for  his  pipe,  which  had  not  been  out  of  his  mouth 
from  the  moment  Livingston  first  saw  him  until  the 
journey  began.  Even  then  he  tried  to  smoke  and 
carry  too,  but  he  was  unable  to  keep  the  tobacco 
alight;  so,  the  moment  the  litter  was  on  the  ground, 
out  came  a  match,  sometimes  the  bowl  was  refilled. 

30 


STRON  GHEART 

and  there  followed  a  period  of  placid  enjoyment  until 
Strongheart  uttered  a  short  word  that  the  invalid 
interpreted  correctly  enough  as  "Move  on,"  and  the 
journey  was  resumed. 

The  end  came  quite  suddenly.  Livingston  had 
closed  his  eyes  in  his  effort  to  suppress  any  sign  of 
pain  or  fatigue,  and  when  a  slight  change  in  his 
position,  and  the  quicker  pace  of  the  carriers  occurred, 
he  opened  them  and  looked  around.  He  saw  the 
blue  level  of  a  broad  lake  dotted  with  islands  and 
bounded  by  green  hills;  a  little  way  ahead,  where 
there  was  a  narrow,  clear  space  between  the  forest 
and  the  shore,  was  a  semicircle  of  tepees,  wigwams, 
and  rude  huts  of  bark  and  boughs;  fires  were  smold- 
ering before  these  dwellings,  and  here  and  there  were 
groups  of  men,  seated  on  the  ground,  smoking;  at 
the  margin  of  the  lake  some  young  women  were  wash- 
ing camp  utensils ;  near  them  sat  older  women,  shawls 
drawn  up  over  their  heads,  apparently  watching  the 
dying  light  upon  the  lake.  From  somewhere  came  a 
sudden  shrill  cry,  and  then  a  confusion  of  children's 
voices;  the  young  women  suspended  their  work  and 
turned  toward  the  carriers;  the  old  women  turned 
their  heads ;  one  man  arose  from  a  group,  looked,  and 
pointed ;  another  stood  up,  then  another,  and  presently 
the  whole  population  of  the  village  moved  slowly  to 
meet  the  carriers,  except  the  children,  who  ran  fast 
and  shouted  as  they  came. 


31 


CHAPTER  III 

THE    CAMERA    FIEND 

It  seemed  to  Livingston  that  few  if  any  questions 
were  asked,  and  yet  that  the  curiosity  of  the  people 
was  aroused  to  an  extraordinary  degree,  and  that  a 
great  crowd  blocked  the  way.  His  head  spun,  and 
he  was  not  sure  of  his  impressions.  Mukwa  promptly 
took  advantage  of  the  press  in  front  to  put  down  his 
end  of  the  litter,  regardless  of  a  sharp  exclamation 
from  Strongheart;  and,  once  his  hands  were  free,  he 
spoke  not  a  word,  but  set  his  pipe  going.  Strong- 
heart  let  down  his  end  of  the  litter,  perforce,  and 
just  then  the  crowd  of  dark  faces,  young  and  old, 
men  and  women,  parted  to  make  room  for  a  patri- 
archal figure,  a  man  of  great  stature  and  rugged 
features,  whose  sparse  hair,  falling  to  his  shoulders, 
was  snow  white.  He  looked  sharply  at  the  man  on 
the  litter,  and  spoke  in  a  quick,  incisive  way  to 
Strongheart,  who  answered  briefly,  but  manifestly 
with  sufficient  thoroughness,  for  Livingston  heard  his 
own  name  in  the  rush  of  unfamiliar  syllables;  and 
then  the  patriarch  gave  a  command  which  Mukwa 
and  Strongheart  obeyed  at  once.  The  litter  was 
picked  up  and  carried  past  several  dwellings  to  a 
large  conical  structure  of  birch  bark  in  the  middle  of 
the  semicircle. 

32 


STRONGHEART 

"That  is  my  father,  Chief  Kiwetin,"  said  Strong- 
heart,  on  the  way.  "He  makes  you  his  guest." 

"I  thought  so,"  Livingston  responded  feebly.  He 
wished  the  tedious  journey  were  at  an  end,  and  bit- 
terly begrudged  the  last  few  paces  to  the  wigwam. 

He  was  presently  set  down  in  the  dark,  fragrant 
dwelling,  and  Strongheart  lifted  him  from  the  litter 
to  a  bed  which  seemed  the  perfection  of  comfort,  for, 
though,  like  the  litter,  it  was  made  mainly  of  boughs, 
it  was  better  made,  and  there  were  blankets  to  give 
it  similarity  to  the  familiar  beds  at  home.  Most  of 
all,  it  gave  such  a  sense  of  permanency  and  rest;  no 
more  jolting,  no  more  sudden  changes  of  position. 
The  triangular  doorway  was  darkened  by  dusky  faces 
peering  in,  but  none  entered  save  Strongheart,  the 
Chief,  and  Mukwa.  The  latter  went  away  at  once, 
and  nobody  troubled  to  ask  him  questions.  Chief 
Kiwetin  sat  on  the  ground  and  passed  his  fingers  over 
Livingston's  ankles. 

"Does  it  hurt?"  he  asked. 

"Like  the  devil!"  said  the  sufferer. 

There  followed  a  brief  conversation  with  Strong- 
heart  in  O  jib  way.  "He  says,"  said  Strongheart,  "that 
if  it  was  his  affair,  he  would  have  the  medicine 
woman  right  away." 

"Medicine  woman!"  echoed  Livingston,  "I  thought 
it  was  medicine  man  among  your  people." 

"We  have  both.     It  is  for  you  to  say." 

There  was  unmistakable  coldness  in  Strongheart's 
tone.  Evidently  he  had  read  in  Livingston's  remark 
the  traditional  contempt  of  the  paleface  for  red  man 

33 


STRONGHEART 

doctoring.  "Another  break!"  groaned  Livingston, 
silently,  and  aloud  he  said  as  earnestly  as  possible, 
"Strongheart,  I  am  in  your  hands  absolutely.  I 
shouldn't  have  the  power  to  say  anything  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  you.  I  couldn't  get  a  white  doctor  to  look 
after  me  inside  of  three  days  at  the  least,  even  if  I 
wanted  to,  and  I  don't  want  to.  Please  understand 
that  I  am  not  only  ordinarily  grateful,  but  apprecia- 
tive— there's  a  distinction,  you  know — and  I  want 
you  to  do  whatever  your  good  judgment  dictates." 
Strongheart's  face  lighted  with  a  smile  of  pleasure. 
He  made  no  spoken  comment,  but  turned  to  the  Chief, 
who,  without  waiting  for  an  interpretation  of  Living- 
ston's words,  slipped  to  the  wigwam  door  and  called 
in  O  jib  way.  Other  voices  joined  in  an  unintelligible 
chatter.  There  was  a  constant  shifting  of  curious 
faces  at  the  door.  Somebody  came  in  and  set  a  chip 
fire  going  in  the  middle  of  the  wigwam.  Presently  a 
woman  pattered  softly  to  the  bedside  and  examined 
Livingston's  feet.  "She  asks  how  you  feel?"  said 
Strongheart.  "There's  some  pain,  and  I'm  faint," 
said  Livingston.  He  was  impatient  for  something  to 
be  done,  and  he  pulled  himself  together  with  an  effort 
to  avoid  delirium.  He  tried  to  extract  amusement 
from  the  situation,  wondering  if  he  would  be  treated 
to  an  exorcism  of  evil  spirits  with  the  beating  of  the 
tom-tom  in  the  traditional  Indian  manner.  What  a 
letter  that  would  make  to  Dorothy !  He  tried  to 
imagine  himself  describing  the  ceremony  in  a  humor- 
ous way,  so  that  she  might  get  all  the  fun  of  it  with- 
out any  of  the  anxiety.  Surely  her  sweet  sympathy 

34 


STRONGHEART 

would  be  with  him  if  she  knew  what  had  happened, 
and  was  even  now  happening.  If  only  she  could  be 
wafted  into  the  wigwam,  so  that  he  might  hear  her 
voice,  and  feel  her  soft  hand  on  his  brow!  Glorious 
dream!  He  shut  his  eyes  that  it  might  take  more 
definite  shape. 

"Eh?  What?"  said  Livingston,  for  he  was  dimly 
aware  that  Strongheart  had  spoken. 

''She  says  there  are  no  bones  broken." 

"I  suppose  that's  good  news.  What's  she  going 
to  do?" 

There  was  no  verbal  response,  but  he  felt  moist 
bandages  wound  upon  his  ankles  and  drawn  tight, 
and  he  marveled  at  the  deftness  of  touch,  the  evident, 
skill  with  which  the  work  was  done.  Strongheart 
lifted  his  head  and  held  a  cup  to  his  lips.  Ah!  how 
refreshing  it  was  in  spite  of  the  bitter  flavor!  "I'd 
like  some  more  of  the  same,"  gasped  the  sufferer,  as 
he  was  laid  back  on  the  bed.  "By  and  by,  if  neces- 
sary," said  Strongheart;  and  then  the  chatter  of  the 
people  outside  grew  faint,  the  light  of  the  wigwam 
fire  dimmed,  and  Livingston  knew  only  the  things 
that  come  and  go  in  sleep. 

It  was  daylight  when  he  awoke  and  recognized  a 
voice  just  without  the  wigwam. 

"Frank!     Frank  Nelson!"  he  called  excitedly. 

"Hello!"  came  a  stentorian  reply.  There  was  a 
momentary  darkening  of  the  doorway,  and  a  splendid 
specimen  of  wholesome,  young  American  manhood 
hurried  in  and  grasped  Livingston's  hand.  "Dick, 
old  man!"  he  cried,  his  face  beaming  with  delight. 

35 


STRONGHEART 

Manifestly  his  heart  swelled  with  millions  of  words 
which  got  in  each  other's  way,  for  he  dropped  down 
beside  the  bed  and  smiled  steadfastly  at  his  comrade. 
If  he  had  been  a  girl — but  he  wasn't,  and  the  lump 
in  his  throat  was  successfully  swallowed. 

"I  s'pose  you  were  anxious  about  me,"  suggested 
Livingston. 

"Anxious  to  beat  the  band,"  Nelson  assured  him, 
"and  you're  not  to  talk  about  it  now.  It's  all  right, 
Dick.  All  you've  got  to  do  is  to  keep  quiet." 

"Not  talk  about  it!"  Livingston  protested  indig- 
nantly. "What's  the  use  of  being  alive  if  I  canlt  talk  ? 
You  don't  mean  to  say  that  that  Indian  medicine 
woman  is  so  modern  that  she's  advised  that  her  pa- 
tient be  kept  quiet?" 

"No,  Dick.  That's  Steve's  dope,  and  mine.  He 
feared  you  might  be  in  danger  of  fever — 

"I'm  in  danger  of  nothing  but  starvation.  Bring 
Steve  in  here  and  see  what  he  thinks  now." 

Nelson  went  to  the  door  and  called,  "Oh !  Steve !" 
and  a  moment  later  a  man  who  might  be  anywhere 
from  fifty  to  sixty-five  years  old  came  slowly  in.  His 
face  was  as  rugged  and  dark  as  an  Indian's,  but  his 
eyes  were  blue.  Winterton  was  quite  as  genuine  a 
product  of  the  wilderness  as  the  Indians  themselves, 
and  current  report  had  it  that  there  was  a  strain  of 
Indian  blood  in  him  from  two  or  three  generations 
back.  Be  that  as  it  might,  no  Indian  excelled  him 
in  knowledge  of  forest  life,  and  much  of  the  coun- 
try itself,  far  to  the  north,  he  knew  better  than  did 
the  aboriginal  inhabitants.  He  was  bom  in  Ojibway 

36 


STRONGHEART 

la«*d,  the  son  of  a  Hudson's  Bay  Compa-ny  factor, 
and  he  had  been  himself  a  factor  until  his  post  was 
abandoned  in  recent  years.  Winterton  has  said  that 
he  never  saw  a  rowboat  until  he  was  more  than  forty 
years  old.  He  never  seemed  to  hurry,  but  his  arms 
were  untiring  when  he  sat  in  the  canoe,  his  long 
legs  never  rested  when  on  the  tramp,  and  though  there 
was  an  almost  constant  twinkle  of  good  humor  in 
his  blue  eyes,  it  was  seldom  that  he  contributed  to 
the  joviality  of  the  camp  at  night;  and  a  long  suc- 
cession of  sportsmen  from  the  States  who  had  em- 
ployed him  as  guide,  had  pumped  him  in  vain  for 
stories  of  his  exploits. 

"I  understand  you've  been  a  great  moose  hunter," 
said  one  of  his  patrons,  on  an  occasion  when  it  seemed 
as  if  the  veteran  woodsman  were  on  the  point  of  re- 
laxing and  giving  some  account  of  himself. 

"I  dunno,"  he  answered  reflectively.  "I  never 
killed  a  moose  for  sport,  but  I've  had  to  shoot  a 
many  for  food  and  the  skins.  I  tried  once  to  count 
'em  up.  I  got  as  far  as  sixty,  'n'  then  found  I  wasn't 
sure  I  hadn't  counted  one  bull  twice,  'n'  I  got  so 
mixed  I  give  it  up.  But  that  brought  it  to  several 
years  before  the  last  moose  I  shot." 

"The  total  would  probably  be  quite  a  hundred, 
then,  wouldn't  it?" 

"Mebbe,"  and  Winterton  pulled  unemotionally  at 
his  pipe.  Apparently  nothing  had  ever  happened 
when  he  killed  a  moose.  So  far  as  he  could  be 
induced  to  tell  of  it,  he  would  have  occasion  for  one  of 
those  sombre  dwellers  in  the  forest,  whereupon  he 

37 


STRON  GHEART 

would  go  forth,  find  one  and  shoot  him.  That  was  all. 
No  clever  sounding  of  the  moose-horn,  no  arduous 
pursuit  on  snow-shoes,  no  tale  of  emergency,  and  the 
unerring  aim  by  which  he  never  failed  to  put  the 
bullet  in  the  right  spot.  A  dry  fellow,  Winterton; 
his  patrons  had  always  given  him  up  in  despair,  but 
not  one  of  them  had  ever  failed  to  recommend  him 
to  his  friends,  or  to  re-employ  him  if  good  fortune 
took  him  again  to  O  jib  way  land. 

"Dick  seems  to  believe  that  his  think-tank  is  all 
right,  Steve,"  said  Nelson,  and  then,  turning  to  the 
invalid,  "How  are  your  poor  old  feet,  Dick?" 

"I  am  conscious  that  they  are  still  attached  to  my 
legs,"  was  Livingston's  solemn  reply,  "by  which  I 
apprehend  that  they  are  not  quite  normal." 

Nelson  nodded  in  a  satisfied  way.  "It  echoes  emp- 
tily of  the  classroom,"  said  he,  "but  it  doesn't  seem 
to  be  dangerous.  Is  it,  Steve?" 

Winterton  squatted  beside  the  bed  and  laid  his 
hand  on  Livingston's  brow.  Then  he  felt  his  pulse. 
"You've  come  out  of  it  right  lucky,"  ne  said.  "Hun- 


"I  could  eat  my  shoes." 

"You  won't  have  to." 

He  went  to  the  door  and  said  a  few  words  in  Ojib- 
way.  Then  he  returned  to  the  bed  and  sat  on  the  floor. 
"Ye  give  me  a  good  scare,  young  man,"  said  he, 
gravely. 

"I  suppose  I  did,"  Livingston  responded  with 
proper  remorse  in  his  tone,  "but,  I  say!  it  was 
worth  it  for  making  me  acquainted  with  Strongheart. 

38 


STRONGHEART 

By  Jove!   Frank,  there's  a  fellow  you  must  know." 

"I've  already  talked  with  him,"  said  Nelson.  "We 
got  his  account  of  the  affair  when  we  got  in  last 
night." 

"Well,  isn't  he  the  most  impressive  man  you  ever 
met?  I  never  saw  anybody  who  interested  me  so. 
I'd  like  to  ask  a  load  of  questions  about  him,  perhaps 
Steve  can  answer  them,  but,  you  know,  there's  some- 
thing about  him  that  kind  of  shuts  you  up  from  in- 
quiring of  him  about  himself.  It  was  funny,  but  when 
I  first  waked  up  after  he  got  me  out  of  the  river,  I 
thought  he  was  a  white  man,  like  Steve,  you  know, 
browned  by  outdoor  life.  It  took  my  breath  away  to 
find  that  he  was  an  Indian.  And  son  of  the  Chief, 
too!  It  makes  me  feel  like  a  discoverer.  Come, 
Frank,  what  do  you  think  of  him?" 

"I  should  say  straightaway  that  Strongheart's  all 
right,"  Nelson  answered.  "He  interests  me  much  as 
he  does  you,  though,  of  course,  I've  had  no  such  op- 
portunity as  you  had  to  get  a  line  on  him.  But, 
talking  of  impressiveness,  Strongheart  isn't  in  it  with 
our  own  Dossegay.  Ha !  how  do  you  suppose  I  felt 
when  I  saw  a  naked  savage  running  at  me  from  the 
woods  ?" 

"Tell  me  about  it.  Didn't  you  laugh  when  you  knew 
who  'twas  ?" 

"Hardly.  Steve  had  just  come  back,  and  he  was 
white  at  the  gills'  from  what  I  had  to  tell  him  about 
you.  'He'll  be  lying  on  the  shallows  just  below  the 
pool,'  said  Steve.  Perhaps  your  imagination  is  equal 
to  grasping  how  that  made  me  feel.  I  had  my  camera 

39 


STRON G HE  ART 

in  my  hands  ready  to  pose  Steve  for  a  picture  I'd 
thought  out,  and  I  was  gaping  at  him,  unable  to  speak, 
while  he  was  hustling  things  together  for  a  hurried 
departure,  when  I  heard  the  sound  of  running  steps, 
and,  supposing  it  was  Joe  coming  back,  I  looked 
around.  Holy  cat !  there  was  that  vision  of  primitive 
savagery  loping  toward  me  from  the  woods  as  if  he 
meant  to  have  my  scalp  before  I  could  say  my  prayers. 
I  tell  you,  Dick,  what  with  the  shock  about  your  un- 
worthy self,  and  the  terrifying  nature  of  Dossegay's 
appearance,  my  blood  simply  froze,  and  I  think  my 
hair  would  have  offered  a  mighty  good  hold  for  the 
scalper.  I  didn't  recognize  Dossegay,  and  I  don't 
believe  'twould  have  made  any  difference  if  I  had. 
How  should  I  know  what  madness  had  seized  the 
natives  ?  Why  shouldn't  I  suppose  that  this  undressed 
warrior  was  only  the  forerunner  of  a  bloodthirsty 
party?  I  tell  you,  I  was  plain  scared,  and  up  to  date 
I'm  not  ashamed  to  own  it." 

"Blamed  if  I  blame  you,"  said  Livingston. 

"You  hain't  telled  him  what  you  done,"  suggested 
Winterton,  with  a  grin. 

Nelson  laughed  a  little  sheepishly.  "I  s'pose  I've 
got  to,"  he  said.  "It's  between  ourselves,  and  now 
that  it's  all  over — well,  there  was  a  fraction  of  a 
second  when  I  was  already  scalped,  burned  at  the 
stake,  and  my  appetizing  remains  picked  by  the  crows. 
Then  my  mind  got  busy,  and  so  did  the  rest  of  me.  I 
let  out  a  yell  that  should  have  discomfited  a  whole 
tribe  of  savages,  and  my  thoughts  leaped  to  my  rifle 
which,  as  luck  would  have  it,  was  leaning  against  the 

40 


STRONGHEART 

tent  within  arm's  length;  but,  luckily  for  Dossegay,  I 
had  another  idea,  simultaneously,  you  understand. 
Here  was  I  with  my  camera  all  charged  for  a  shot, 
and  such  an  opportunity!  You  know  how  quickly 
the  mind  acts,  Dick.  I  wasn't  over  the  first  shock  of 
terror  at  sight  of  the  oncoming  aborigine,  before  I 
had  reckoned  that  I  could  get  a  picture  of  him  and 
still  have  time  to  shoot  him  before  he  got  to  me." 

Livingston  began  to  chuckle.  "The  ruling  passion," 
said  he. 

"That's  all  right,  laugh  away,"  Nelson  retorted.  "I 
can  see  the  humor  of  it  in  retrospect.  Anyhow,  I  up 
with  the  camera,  sighted  and  snapped  just  as  the  war- 
rior, stripped  for  the  fray,  yelling,  as  I  thought,  a 
battle  cry,  burst  from  the  cover  of  the  foliage.  Then 
I  laid  down  the  camera  and  grabbed  the  rifle.  Do 
you  know,  I  got  that  blamed  instrument  of  slaughter 
half  way  to  my  shoulder,  and  in  one  second  more 
there  would  have  been  a  hole  in  Dossegay,  when,  biff! 
an  avalanche  hit  the  side  of  my  head  so  that  my  ears 
ring  with  it  yet.  My  rifle  dropped  to  the  ground,  and 
I  sprawled  full  length  beside  it.  I  wasn't  stunned,  oh 
no !  I  was  enough  awake  to  hear  our  venerable  friend 
here  say,  'Ye  damn  fool,  he  says  Livingston's  alive!' 
You  see,  luckily  again  for  Dossegay,  Steve  had  been 
startled  by  my  yell.  He  got  into  action  without  pre- 
liminary parley  and  saved  me  from  being  the  hero  of 
a  tragedy  and  Dossegay  from  being  the  victim  of  it.  I 
tell  you,  there  was  nothing  slow  about  Steve  on  that 
occasion." 

"Couldn't  be,"  protested  Winterton,  mildly,  while 
41 


STRONGHEART 

he  grinned  in  agreeable  contemplation  of  the  scene 
that  Nelson  recalled.  "I've  seen  young  men  from  the 
States  too  ready  with  their  guns  before.  I  didn't  go 
fer  to  knock  ye  down,  as  I  said  at  the  time,  but  I  jest 
had  to  prevent  murder,  and  I  s'pose  I  wasn't  pertickler 
'bout  weighing  my  fist,"  and  Winterton  continued  to 
grin  amusedly. 

"Oh !  if  only  I  could  have  seen  it !"  sighed  Livingston. 

"I'd  like  to  see  that  pictur'  when  it's  prented,"  said 
Winterton. 

Nelson  assured  him  that  he  should  have  a  copy. 

"I  s'pose  you  recognized  Dossegay,  didn't  you, 
Steve?"  suggested  Livingston. 

"Hm-hm,  and  I  hearn  what  he  said." 

"So  did  I,"  said  Nelson,  "and  that's  all  the  good 
it  did  me.  If  I  had  heard  Dick's  name  in  the  course  of 
Dossegay's  yell,  I  might  not  have  been  quite  so  foolish. 
I'm  not  sure,  but  anyhow,  I  didn't  hear  it.  What  do 
you  suppose  he  called  you,  Dick?" 

"Why  ask  me  to  guess,  if  he  didn't  use  my  name  ?" 

"Well,  sir,  prepare  to  sit  up !  That  bronze  Mercury 
alluded  to  you  as  nothing  less  than  'The  Chief.' '' 

"Chief!  Me?"  and  Livingston  turned  a  dubiously 
inquiring  look  at  Winterton. 

"What  he  said,"  Winterton  replied,  "was  'Ogema 
bimadad.'  That  means  'The  Chief  lives.'  It  was  the 
quickest  way  he  could  tell  the  news  he  was  bringing. 
The  Ojibways  often  say  'ogema'  where  we  would  say 
boss,  or  employer." 

"Just  the  same,  you've  been  dubbed  chief,"  said 
Nelson.  "Ogema !  think  of  it.  Big  Chief  Livingston  I 

42 


STRON GHEART 

I  shall  see  that  all  Columbia  is  informed  of  your  dis- 
tinction." 

"Better  be  shy  of  that,  Frank.  But,  go  on  with 
your  story.  That  isn't  all  of  it,  is  it?" 

"Well,  what  followed  was  anti-climax.  We  had  no 
longer  tears  to  shed  over  your  untimely  demise,  so 
that  all  my  emotion  was  thrown  away,  and  I  could 
return  to  the  exercise  of  my  normal  sensibilities,  which 
proceeded  at  once  to  be  violently  shocked  at  Dossegay's 
unconventional  garb.  If  he'd  only  had  a  plug  hat, 
or  an  umbrella,  but  moccasins,  hoc  ct  praeterea  nihil, 
was  simply  too  much,  or  too  little,  rather,  for  my 
native  prudery,  and  I  proceeded  to  correct  the  de- 
ficiency. You've  had  a  good  deal  to  say  about  my 
tenderfootedness  in  including  a  suit  of  pajamas  in  my 
camp  outfit.  Useless  encumbrance,  said  you.  Ever 
after  this,  hold  your  peace  on  the  subject.  I  got  'em 
out,  made  Dossegay  put  'em  on,  and,  thus  clad,  when 
Joe  got  back  from  his  exploring  expedition,  he  guided 
us  to  this  village  where  we  arrived  about  an  hour  after 
you  dropped  to  sleep." 

"Dossegay  in  pajamas!"  exclaimed  Livingston, 
shaking  with  laughter.  "I'd  like  to  bet  one  other 
thing  happened.  A  thousand  to  one  you  photographed 
him  in  that  get-up." 

"You  win,"  Nelson  admitted,  whereupon  Livingston 
shrieked. 

Just  then  Joe  came  in  with  coffee  and  bacon,  and 
other  things  agreeable  to  a  starving  man,  and  Living- 
ston, propped  up  with  blankets  and  skins,  applied 
himself  to  breakfast. 

43 


CHAPTER  IV 

IMPRESSIONS  OF  SOANGETAHA 

During  the  meal,  Nelson  told  Livingston  how  Win- 
terton  and  the  Indians  had  set  up  their  tents  at  the 
end  of  the  village  semicircle,  and  Livingston  wondered 
if  he  ought  to  have  himself  moved  there.  Steve  vetoed 
this  suggestion  promptly. 

"You're  Kiwetin's  guest,"  said  he,  "and  the  old  man 
would  feel  badly  if  you  should  quit.  Of  course  you 
can  do  so  'f  you  like,  and  the  Indians  will  keep  on 
being  good  to  ye,  but — " 

"That  settles  it,"  Livingston  interposed.  "If  they 
will  let  me  stay  here,  I'd  rather.  Horses  couldn't  drag 
me  out.  Guest  of  a  chief !  Ha !  it's  something  worth 
thinking  of.  The  only  thing  I  thought  was  that  I 
might  be  crowding  the  place." 

"Don't  look  so,  does  it?"  asked  Winterton,  letting 
his  eyes  roam  over  the  roomy  wigwam.  "This  would 
accommodate  a  dozen  men,  an'  they'd  be  lonesome  at 
that.  Eighteen  would  be  comfortable,  an'  'f  'twas 
pushed  you  could  get  twenty-four  in  here  an'  still  have 
room  fer  the  fire  an'  trappings." 

"It's  certainly  big  enough,  but  I  supposed  the  Chief 
had  a  family  to  correspond." 

"No.  Kiwetin  has  only  his  son,  Soangetaha.  The 
old  man's  squaw  died  a  couple  years  ago.  There  was 

44 


STRONGHEART 

daughters,  but  they're  all  married.  So  him  an'  the  boy 
live  here  alone,  'cept  when  the's  visitors,  which  ain't 
seldom.  Indians  are  mighty  fond  of  visitors." 

"I'm  here  to  stay,  then;  but  say,  Steve,  tell  me 
about  Strongheart.  You  know  all  about  him,  don't 
you?" 

"Well,  I've  watched  him  grow  up." 

"What — "  But  the  question  had  to  be  postponed, 
for  at  the  moment  Chief  Kiwetin  and  Strongheart 
came  in.  Kiwetin  went  straight  to  the  bed  with  out- 
stretched hand. 

"Bozho,  bozho,  bozho,  bozho,"  said  he,  cheerfully, 
and  added  several  other  "bozhos,"  the  universal  word 
both  of  greeting  and  farewell  among  the  Ojibways. 
Then,  when  Livingston  grasped  his  hand,  he  said  in 
English,  "You  look  pretty  well,"  to  which  he  added 
something  in  Ojibway,  with  a  side  glance  at  his  son. 

Strongheart  also  shook  hands,  and  his  face  was 
bright  with  pleased  smiles,  but  he  suppressed  his  own 
greeting  in  favor  of  translating  the  Chief's  words. 
"My  father  hopes  that  you  had  a  good  sleep." 

"Splendid!"  Livingston  answered.  "The  night 
passed  like  a  flash.  I  remember  nothing  of  it,  which 
must  speak  well  for  the  bed.  Tell  your  father  that 
I  thank  him  for  letting  me  come  in  here." 

It  was  Kiwetin  who  responded,  "You  are  welcome 
to  stay  as  long  as  you  like." 

Livingston  was  surprised,  for  the  old  man's  de- 
pendence upon  Strongheart's  services  as  interpreter 
had  led  him  to  suppose  that  he  knew  but  a  few  phrases 
of  English.  It  was  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue  to  make 

45 


STRONGHEART 

some  ingenuous  comment,  and  it  would  have  been 
unmistakably  complimentary,  but  memory  of  his 
"breaks"  of  the  day  before  restrained  him,  and  he 
contented  himself  with  saying,  "Thank  you  again,  sir." 

Kiwetin  sat  on  a  bed  across  the  wigwam,  and 
Strongheart  took  his  place  on  another.  The  Chief 
drew  forth  his  pipe  and  lighted  it,  methodically,  quite 
as  if  he  had  settled  himself  for  a  long  day  of  idleness. 
Joe  looked  in  and,  seeing  that  Livingston  had  finished 
breakfast,  entered  unceremoniously  and  removed  the 
dishes. 

"Your  canoe  is  all  right  again,"  said  Strongheart. 

"So  ?"  exclaimed  Livingston,  again  surprised.  "How 
do  you  know?  Where  is  it?" 

"Here.  Mukwa  went  after  it  as  soon  as  you  had 
been  put  to  bed  last  night." 

"You  don't  say!  'Way  back  there  for  the  canoe? 
Not  alone?" 

"Alone.  He  brought  it  in  before  midnight,  and  by 
sunrise  he  was  pitching  it.  It's  all  right  for  use  now." 

"I  never  seen  a  man  so  fond  of  a  canoe  as  Mukwa," 
said  Winterton. 

"All  Ojibways  are  fond  of  canoes,"  said  Strong- 
heart,  gravely.  "Why  shouldn't  they  be?  What  is 
so  useful  ?  Not  even  the  caribou  can  equal  the  canoe. 
You  have  put  many  an  hour,  yourself,  Steve,  into 
mending  broken  canoes." 

"I  have,"  the  woodsman  admitted. 

Livingston  noted  Strongheart's  quick  jumping  to 
the  defensive.  To  the  white  man's  apprehension 
nothing  had  been  said  that  could  possibly  wound  a 

46 


STRONGHEART 

reasonable  man,  and  yet  there  was  that  in  Strong- 
heart's  tone  as  well  as  his  words,  to  suggest  that  he 
was,  if  not  hurt,  suspicious  that  Winterton  meant  to 
slight  him  and  his  people  in  some  way.  Livingston 
was  disturbed.  He  looked  covertly  at  Winterton  to 
observe  whether  he  were  affected  by  the  young  In- 
dian's almost  aggressive  manner.  The  woodsman's 
face  was  as  impassive  as  that  of  the  stolidest  red  man, 
and  he  pulled  away  at  his  pipe  quite  as  if  the  exercise 
were  one  of  duty.  A  period  of  silence  followed  that 
was  embarrassing  to  Livingston.  At  length  the  Chief 
spoke  in  O  jib  way,  and  Strongheart  translated. 

"My  father  says  he  fears  you  may  be  disturbed  by 
a  council  that  is  to  be  held  today.  Some  men  are 
coming  to  talk  over  a  plan  for  buying  a  part  of  our 
lands,  and  the  debate  will  take  place  just  at  the  door 
of  the  wigwam,  if  the  weather  is  pleasant;  inside  if 
it  rains." 

"Do  you  mean  that  I'll  be  in  the  way?"  asked  Liv- 
ingston, anxiously. 

"Not  at  all." 

"The  talk  might  keep  you  awake,"  said  the  Chief. 

"I'd  rather  stay,  if  I  may.  I  never  saw  an  Indian 
council." 

More  Ojibway  from  the  Chief,  which  Strongheart 
explained  as  leaving  the  matter  wholly  to  Livingston. 
Nelson  asked  if  he  might  remain  in  the  wigwam  also 
during  the  council,  and  the  Chief  himself  answered 
at  once,  "Yes ;  why  not  ?"  So  that  was  agreeably  set- 
tled, and  there  was  another  period  of  smoke  and 
silence.  Again  Kiwetin  opened  conversation.  "You 

47 


STRONGHEART 

come  from  the  States?"  he  asked.  The  question  was 
directed  impartially  at  both  white  visitors,  but  the 
Chief's  eyes  chanced  to  meet  those  of  Nelson,  who 
replied,  "Yes,  New  York.  I  am  from  New  York  City, 
and  Dick,  here,  is  from  Albany,  though  both  of  us 
belong  in  New  York  City  at  present,  for  we  are  stu- 
dents at  Columbia  College." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Kiwetin,  tranquilly. 

Livingston's  eyes  were  on  Strongheart,  and  he  was 
struck  by  a  sudden  and  remarkable  change  in  his  ex- 
pression. The  grave  repose,  which  is  so  often  inter- 
preted as  Indian  stolidity,  gave  way  to  flashing  eyes, 
a  perceptible  tightening  of  the  lips,  that  made  him 
look  almost  like  another  man.  Livingston  actually 
thrilled  at  the  suggestion  of  hardly  restrained  passion 
in  Strongheart's  glance  at  him,  which  was  hastily 
averted,  and  he  wondered  feverishly  what  it  meant. 
It  might  have  been  hatred  for  everybody  white,  so 
intense  was  it.  Strongheart  seemed  conscious  of  an 
undue  manifestation  of  feeling,  for  his  brow  con- 
tracted slightly,  and  he  screened  his  eyes  by  looking 
at  the  ground. 

"We're  up  here  just  for  a  little  fishing  and  hunting 
where  the  fish  and  game  haven't  been  cleaned  out," 
added  Nelson,  by  way  of  friendly  encouragement  to 
talk. 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Kiwetin. 

"Steve,  here,  was  taking  us  to  a  lake  which  he  said 
no  paleface  had  visited,  when  Dick  tried  to  kill  him- 
self by  shooting  the  rapids/'  Nelson  continued,  and  the 
Chief  again  said  "Yes,  yes,"  as  if  in  benignant  appro- 

48 


STRONGHEART 

bation  of  the  venture.  Nelson  found  himself  helpless 
in  the  silence  that  followed,  but  it  did  not  endure  long 
before  a  woman  paused  at  the  door  and  looked  in 
doubtfully.  It  was  the  medicine  woman,  Kiwetin's 
sister,  as  the  visitors  learned  later,  and,  at  the  Chief's 
prompt  command,  she  entered.  By  daylight  she  ap- 
peared to  be  a  well  preserved,  portly  squaw,  mucli 
younger  than  the  Chief,  and,  despite  her  professional 
standing,  palpably  embarrassed  in  the  presence  of  the 
whites.  There  was  a  self-conscious  smirk  on  her  face 
as  she  went  to  Livingston's  bed  and  drew  away  the 
covering  from  his  feet.  Not  once  did  she  look  him  in 
the  eyes.  Hesitatingly  at  first,  and  then  with  growing 
confidence,  she  unwound  the  bandages.  She  had  no 
need  to  invite  observation  of  the  effects  of  her  treat- 
ment, for  Kiwetin  crossed  the  wigwam  and  looked, 
Winterton  laid  down  his  pipe  and  bent  over  the  bed, 
and  Strongheart  put  his  head  close  to  the  others. 
Livingston's  interest  in  the  scene  was  greater  than  in 
his  own  condition,  and,  at  the  risk  of  disturbing  the 
inspection,  he  raised  himself  to  see,  not  so  much  his 
injured  members,  as  the  grave  party  at  the  bedside. 
Nelson  looked  on,  too,  but,  feeling  himself  somewhat 
an  outsider,  he  was  content  to  stand  while  the  others 
knelt.  There  was  an  exchange  of  observations  in 
Ojibway,  in  which  Winterton  took  part.  The  medi- 
cine woman  put  on  fresh  bandages,  and  stood  up; 
Winterton  took  his  former  position  and  resumed 
his  pipe;  Strongheart  went  back  to  the  bed  that  had 
been  his  seat  across  the  wigwam. 

"She  done  her  work  well,"  said  Winterton. 
49 


STRONGHEART 

"Do  they  all  agree  to  that  ?''  asked  Livingston,  find- 
ing it  almost  impossible  to  repress  manifestation  of 
the  entertainment  the  scene  gave  him. 

"Hm-hm,"  assented  Winterton. 

"How  soon  do  they  think  I  can  walk?" 

Strongheart  interpreted  this  question  to  the  medi- 
cine woman,  and,  when  she  ha'd  answered,  "She  says 
that  you  can  walk  as  soon  as  the  feet  are  well." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Livingston,  with  perfect  gravity ; 
and  he  wondered  whether  any  white  physician  could 
have  framed  a  more  professionally  evasive  answer. 

Then  Chief  Kiwetin  and  the  medicine  woman  went 
out. 

Winterton  remarked  that  in  all  his  experience  he  had 
never  met  a  better  Indian  doctor  than  Wabunequay, 
which  was  the  medicine  woman's  name. 

"Then  you  think  I'll  have  a  speedy  recovery?"  asked 
Livingston. 

"  'Twont  be  long  'f  you  keep  quiet." 

"I've  got  to  see  Mukwa  about  some  work,"  said 
Strongheart,  rising,  and  he  crossed  the  wigwam  to 
shake  hands  with  the  invalid.  "You'll  have  to  be  pa- 
tient, Livingston,"  he  said.  "In  a  day  or  two,  if  you 
like,  Mukwa  and  I  will  take  you  out  on  the  lake  in  a 
big  canoe,  and  perhaps  you  can  do  some  fishing." 

"It's  mighty  kind  of  you  to  think  of  that,  Strong- 
heart,"  said  Livingston,  quickly,  as  he  gave  the  Indi- 
an's hand  a  hard  grip.  "I  shall  be  tickled  to  death  to 
go  just  as  soon  as  the  medicine  woman  says  I  can. 
Thanks,  old  chap,  the  sooner  the  better." 

Strongheart's  face  glowed  with  childlike  delight 
50 


STRONGHEART 

during  Livingston's  little  speech,  but  he  said  no  more 
and  went  his  way. 

"That  fellow's  a  beaut,  when  he's  pleased,  isn't  he  ?" 
said  Nelson,  watching  the  retreating  figure  striding 
down  to  the  margin  of  the  lake. 

Livingston  ignored  his  chum.  "I'm  glad  he's  gone !" 
he  exclaimed.  "I  couldn't  hold  in  my  questions  a 
second  longer.  Come  Steve !  Open  up,  and  tell  us  all 
about  him." 

Winterton  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth  and  stared 
in  good-natured  perplexity  at  his  eager  patron. 
"Why,"  said  he,  in  that  difficult  way  of  his  that  sug- 
gests, to  those  who  know,  the  progress  of  a  load  of 
logs  over  a  rough  trail  in  Winter,  "I  dunno  's  much 
's  all  that.  He's  a  good  feller,  Soangetaha  is.  There's 
them  as  thinks  he's  sp'iled,  but  I  dunno.  I've  allus 
stuck  to  it  that  he'll  come  out  right  yit." 

"Spoiled!"  cried  Livingston,  indignantly.  "Good 
Lord!  I  never  saw  a  man  who  seemed  less  like  it. 
Who  says  he's  spoiled?" 

"His  people.     Some  on  'em." 

"Why,  I'd  like  to  know?" 

"  'Cause  he's  eddicated." 

Livingston  was  speechless  for  a  moment  with  in- 
dignation. Then,  "Is  it  possible,"  he  demanded,  "that 
his  people  are  so  blind,  or  stupid,  or  prejudiced,  or 
just  plain  savage,  that  they  can't  appreciate  him? 
Why !  he's  an  ornament  and  an  honor  to  his  race !" 

"Mebbe,"  said  Winterton,  noncommittally. 

"You  seem  to  be  in  doubt  yourself,  yet  you  said  he 
wasn't  spoiled." 

51 


STRONGHEART 

Winterton  knocked  the  ashes  from  his  pipe.  If  he 
must  be  involved  in  argument,  it  was  useless  to  try 
to  smoke,  too.  "Well,  you  see,"  he  responded,  "what 
I  say  is,  he's  got  it  in  him  all  right,  but  tain't  out  yit, 
not  so's  to  satisfy  his  people,  an'  make  him  useful, 
an'  make  them  trust  him.  Tain't  all  onesided,  though. 
The's  some  as  look  to  him  to  be  the  chief  when  Kiwe- 
tin  dies,  an'  they  hold  stubborn  to  the  idee  that  Soan- 
getaha  will  be  a  great  chief.  Black  Eagle's  one  on 
'em.  You  hain't  seen  him  yit,  but  you  will,  'cause  he's 
likely  to  be  to  the  council." 

"What  does  Black  Eagle  say?    Who  is  he?" 

"He's  one  of  the  council.  Kind  of  sub-chief.  He's 
a  real  old-time  Indian  if  the's  one  left  anywheres,  and 
as  sech  he  ain't  agin  eddication,  only  he  wants  to  see 
something  come  outen  it,  an'  he  ain't  full  satisfied  yit 
with  Soangetaha.  But  he  sticks  to  his  faith  in  him, 
though." 

Livingston  scowled,  for  the  woodsman  mystified 
rather  than  enlightened  him.  "How  does  Strongheart 
himself  feel?"  he  asked. 

"Can't  say,  'cause  he  never  told  me.  I  hearn  him 
once  argyfying  with  Kiwetin  an'  some  of  the  other 
old  uns.  He  was  playin'  up  civilization  as  the  real 
thing,  an'  they  was  tellin'  him  to  bring  it  on,  an'  show 
'em,  an'  he  couldn't  make  good,  'cept  to  wear  clothes 
that  ain't  Ojibway,  'n'  talk  things  they  can't  under- 
s-.and."  Winterton  paused  a  moment,  but  Livingston 
said  nothing,  for  it  was  as  plain  as  could  be  that  the 
woodsman's  brain  was  struggling  with  the  problem 
involved  in  expressing  just  what  he  felt.  "Seems  to 


STRONGHEART 

me,"  he  resumed,  "that  Soangetaha's  got  what  you 
might  call  the  civilization  fever.  He's  be'n  to  school, 
'n'  had  a  taste  o'  city  life,  or  something  like  it  com- 
pared to  what's  here,  an'  now  he's  back  he's  kin.d  o' 
like  a  man  in  the  middle  o'  the  week  looking  both 
ways  fer  Sunday." 

"Well,  by  mighty!"  cried  Livingston,  "he  belongs 
in  civilization.  What  do  you  think,  Frank?" 

"I  must  say  he  seems  out  of  place  here,"  Nelson 
replied. 

"It  is  hard,"  said  Winterton,  reflectively,  as  if  he 
had  not  heard  the  others.  "He's  all  Indian,  and  he's 
had  a  sight  at  white-man  ways — a  durned  sight  mor'n 
I  have.  Now  I'm  satisfied  to  stick  to  the  bush,  but  I 
ain't  Indian.  It's  my  choice.  Soangetaha  hain't  got 
no  choice,  'n'  with  his  fever  on,  it's  dum  hard,  I 
reckon,  fer  him  to  give  up  the  books,  'n'  fine  clo'es,  'n' 
whatever  it  is  that  makes  the  cities  pleasant  to  him, 
'n'  git  down  to  the  sod  agin.  Reckon  he's  kind  o' 
half  baked." 

The  woodsman  resumed  his  pipe,  and  Livingston 
immediately  made  an  announcement.  "The  one  way 
to  get  at  this,"  he  said,  "is  to  talk  straight  to  Strong- 
heart,  and  I'm  going  to  do  it." 

"That's  right  enough,"  Winterton  responded.  "He's 
tackled  to  you  boys  as  I  never  seen  him  do  to  any 
others.  I  ruther  think  he'll  talk  to  you.  Most  In- 
dians are  dum  slow  in  the  talking  line,  slower'n  I  be, 
unless  they  gets  worked  up  among  themselves.  Then 
they  talk  each  other  deef.  But  Soangetaha,  he's  dif- 

runt." 

~,, 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  USELESSNESS   OF   EDUCATION 

"The  sooner  I  get  at  this  the  better,"  said  Liv- 
ingston, in  such  tone  of  conviction  as  would  have 
been  inspired  by  the  most  desperate  emergency. 
"What's  he  doing  now?" 

Winterton  remarked  as  he  went  to  the  door,  "You 
won't  gain  time  by  trying  to  hurry  an  Indian,"  and 
then  reported  that  Strongheart  seemed  to  be  occu- 
pied with  Mukwa  in  pitching  a  big  canoe.  "Reck- 
on," added  Winterton,  "he's  getting  ready  to  take 
you  out  on  the  lake." 

"Well,"  said  Livingston,  impetuously,  "that's  a 
highly  worthy  occupation,  and  it  shows  all  the  more 
how  much  he  deserves  from  me  anything  I  can  do 
for  him,  but  the  canoe  can  wait.  And  as  for  hur- 
rying an  Indian,  if  Strongheart  is  so  far  civilized  as 
you  think,  he  can  stand  being  hurried.  If  he  can't 
stand  a  straight  talk,  the  sooner  I  know  it  the  better, 
for  then  I  shan't  be  interested  in  him  any  more.  Tell 
him  to  come  in,  Steve." 

"Civilization  don't  change  a  man's  skin,"  said 
Winterton,  rather  cryptically.  He  removed  his  pipe 
to  say  it,  as  if  to  let  his  tolerant  smile  take  the 

54 


STRONGHEART 

sting  from  his  observation,  and,  without  waiting  for 
a  retort,  strode  slowly  toward  the  shore,  where 
Strongheart  and  Mukwa  were  at  work. 

''Dick,"  said  Nelson,  "don't  you  think  you'd  better 
tackle  Strongheart  alone?  Wouldn't  you  rather? 
You  mustn't  think  I'm  not  interested;  for  I  am ;  so 
much  so  that  I  believe  I  ought  to  sacrifice  my  inter- 
est and  clear  out,  lest  my  presence  should  hinder 
the  fellow  from  talking  freely." 

"Why!  do  you  think  it  would  do  that?" 

"It  might.  With  all  his  civilization,  he's  still  an 
Indian,  andvhe  may  be  shy  of  strangers.  He's  been 
a  blamed  sight  closer  to  you  than  to  me,  and  so 
might  open  up  to  you.  [Lt's  just  this,  Dick:  my 
presence  is  an  unnecessary  risk.  See  him  alone,  and 
tell  me  about  it  afterward." 

"There's  something  in  that,  Frank.  All  right,  run 
away  and  play  with  your  camera  for  a  while." 

"I  will.  There's  a  pappoose  on  a  board  swinging 
from  a  tree  just  behind  the  village.  I've  got  to  get 
that  picture  before  the  chance  is  gone." 

Nelson  was  hardly  out  of  the  way  before  Strong- 
heart  appeared  at  the  door.  "Want  to  see  me,  Liv- 
ingston?" he  asked. 

"Yes,  come  in,  please.  I  want  to  ask  a  favor  of 
you,  Strongheart." 

The  Indian's  eyes  glowed  with  pleasure.  "Any- 
thing in  my  power,  Livingston,"  said  he. 

"It's  in  your  power,  all  right,  all  right.  I  want 
you  to  tell  me  about  yourself.  Now,  don't  jump  into 
your  trunk  and  shut  the  lid  after  you,"  as  he  ob- 

55 


STRONGHEART 

served  the  Indian's  eyes  contract,  and  his  expression 
revert  to  the  immovable  gravity  characteristic  of 
his  race.  "I'm  not  asking  out  of  vulgar  curiosity. 
Seems  to  me  you  must  know  that  already,  even  if  it 
was  only  yesterday  that  you  introduced  yourself  by 
dipping  me  out  of  the  brook.  I  feel  a  tremendous 
interest  in  you.  I  suppose  it's  because  you're 
different  from  any  Indian  I  ever  saw.  Anyhow 
— I'm  going  to  be  blunt,  and  if  it  hurts  I'm 
sorry;  but  it  can't  be  helped,  for  bluntness  will 
show  exactly  what  I  mean,  and  I  don't  want  any 
misunderstanding.  The  point  is,  Strongheart,  you 
seem  to  be  awfully  out  of  place.  You're  no  sav- 
age-" 

"My  people  are  not  savages,"  Strongheart  inter- 
rupted resentfully. 

"Sure  they're  not,  old  chap ;  but  neither  are  they 
educated  men  like  yourself." 

"Yes,  that's  the  difference  you  allude  to.  Educa- 
tion! What  good  does  it  do?  It  makes  the  differ- 
ence. And  of  what  use  is  that?" 

"Well,"  said  Livingston,  somewhat  staggered,  "I 
might  put  up  an  argument  on  that  if  I  had  time  to 
prepare  it,  but  I  must  say  I'm  not  ready  for  it  off- 
hand. Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  deny  the  value 
of  education?" 

"Why  shouldn't  I?  Has  it  done  me  any  good  to 
get  a  glimpse  of  things  I  can  never  attain?  Does 
the  smattering  of  Latin  drummed  into  me  at  school 
make  me  a  better  or  a  wiser  man  here?" 

He  stood  up  when  he  began  to  speak,  and  as  he 
56 


STRONGHEART 

concluded  he  swung  both  arms  out  in  a  magnificent, 
comprehensive  gesture. 

"Latin!"  exclaimed  Livingston,  "you  know 
Latin?" 

"I  can  conjugate  pugno  and  decline  hasta" 

"My  paradigms  were  amo  and  mensa,"  said  the 
white  man. 

"So  were  mine,  and  they  were  appropriate  to  your 
level  of  civilization.  Fighting  words  fit  my  condi- 
tion better.  So  I  remember  them." 

He  spoke  with  intense  bitterness,  and  his  expres- 
sion suggested  unutterable  rebellion.  Livingston 
was  awed.  "I  think,"  he  said  slowly,  and  without  a 
trace  of  his  first  impetuous  eagerness,  "that  I  can 
understand  how  Latin  is  of  no  service  to  you,  but 
education  generally — surely  you  must  prize  it.  The 
very  fact  that  it  distinguishes  you  from  your  fellow 
men,  sets  you  apart  and  above  them,  must  be  a  sat- 
isfaction. Isn't  it,  now?" 

Strongheart  waited  a  bit  before  replying,  and  Liv- 
ingston inferred  that  he  was  struggling  to  master 
himself.  "It  sets  me  apart,  but  not  above  them," 
he  said  presently.  "  We  can't  understand  each 
other,  Livingston,  unless  you  take  into  account  my 
circumstances,  and  you  can't  do  so  because  you  are 
more  ignorant  of  Indian  life  than  I  am  of  the  white 
man's.  I  am  blunt,  too,  you  see." 

"You  can  make  me  understand  your  circum- 
stances, old  chap." 

"Perhaps  I  can.  You  said  I  seemed  out  of  place, 
and  that  means  that  you  see  the  general  fact.  Can 

57 


STRONGHEART 

you  understand  what  a  horrible  jealousy  I  felt 
when  your  friend  told  my  father  that  you  were  col- 
lege students?  Before  then  I  had  been  jealous  of 
my  race,  reading  into  everything  you  said  the  white 
man's  ordinary  slur  upon  my  people.  So  far  as  you 
and  your  friend  were  concerned,  I  really  felt  that 
what  you  said  was  due  to  simple  ignorance,  that 
you  intended  no  slur,  and  I  felt  that  I  had  a  right 
to  be  on  the  same  level  with  you,  giving  and  taking 
just  as  you  do  among  yourselves,  but  the  habit  of 
thought  is  strong,  and,  as  you  were  strangers,  I 
could  not  help  resenting  everything  that  might  be 
twisted  into  a  reflection  on  my  people.  For  I  am 
proud  of  them !  Don't  you  let  anything  I  say  blind 
you  to  that  fact.  Their  honesty,  their  courage, 
their  devotion  to  each  other,  their  entire  absence  of 
greed,  aye,  their  history,  fill  me  with  pride!  I  see 
their  traits'  the  better  for  being  a  little  apart,  but  I 
have  seen  the  other  life,  that  life  that  appeals  to  and 
demands  a  broader,  more  diversified  intelligence, 
and  that  life  I  have  learned  to  love.  J  had  enough 
of  it  to  arouse  in  me  desires  that  I  knew  not  before, 
and  that  never  can  be  satisfied  here.  So,  when 
Nelson  spoke  of  college,  all  of  a  sudden  those  de- 
sires were  stirred  as  if  there  were  a  tempest  in  my 
brain.  A  thousand  thoughts  came  at  once,  and  among 
them  was  one  that  I  will  tell  you.  I  thought  how  a 
few  hours  before  one  of  these  superior  white  men 
was  in  my  power,  mine!  I  had  to  commit  no  act  of 
hostility  or  treachery;  I  had  but  to  stand  still  and 
let  him  save  himself  if  he  could;  and  that  all  his 

58 


STRONGHEART 

superiority  was  not  equal  to  the  peril  that  overwhelmed 
him ;  that  the  inferior  redskin  brought  him  back  from 
death  and  enabled  him  to  return  presently  to  that 
large,  diversified  life;  and  that  the  cursed  redskin 
would  have  to  stay  here  and  slowly  stagnate,  rot  in 
the  wilderness!" 

"By  mighty,  Strongheart,  you  shan't  do  it!  You 
must—" 

"Wait,  Livingston.  I  have  been  talking  to  myself 
more  than  to  you,  and  have  not  yet  shown  you  what 
education  has  done  for  me.  You  have  seen  so  far 
just  the  froth  on  the  surface.  Let's  get  under  that 
and  see  what's  stewing  there.  A  well  meaning  man, 
inspired  by  a  good  missionary,  gave  me  my  oppor- 
tunity for  schooling.  Quite  a  number  of  people  took 
turns  in  directing  my  studies.  One  was  for  teaching 
me  plain  things,  what  you  call,  I  think,  the  three  R's. 
So  I  learned  to  read  and  write,  and  solve  problems  in 
arithmetic.  Another  believed  that  I  should  be  turned 
into  a  missionary,  and  I  was  befogged  with  theology. 
Another  was  sure  that  my  talents  deserved  the  higher 
education ;  hence  my  Latin,  and  my  ability  to  find  the 
value  of  .v  given  a  and  b.  And  so  it  went  until  a  per- 
son of  supereminent  wisdom  perceived  that  what  the 
Indian  needed  was  manual  training.  His  hands  should 
be  skilled  in  a  trade  whereby  he  might  live.  And  so 
I  was  taught  to  make  harnesses.  My  chief  benefactor 
died.  The  others  did  not  lack  interest,  perhaps,  but 
they  had  other  subjects,  and,  at  all  events,  I  was  a 
harness-maker.  So  back  I  was  sent  to  my  people. 
Livingston:  only  one  man  in  all  the  band  over  which 

59 


STRON GHEART 

my  father  is  chief  owns  a  horse.  What  have  we 
dwellers  in  the  forest  to  do  with  horses  ?  Our  meagre 
farms  are  ploughed  by  oxen,  or  the  one  horse  is  loaned 
out  from  plot  to  plot.  What  am  I  to  do  with  my 
knowledge  of  harness-making?  What  shall  I  do  with 
my  Latin  and  my  algebra?  And  even  my  writing; 
some  Ojibways  have  occasion  to  write  a  letter  once  a 
year.  I  am  their  willing  secretary,  but  what  does  it 
amount  to?  Surely  I  do  not  need  to  more  than  sug- 
gest the  situation.  What  education  has  given  to  me 
is  waste  material  for  the  life  I  must  lead.  Perhaps 
you  think  of  my  theology.  I  can  only  say  that  if  ever 
I  had  dreamed  of  being  a  missionary,  the  theology 
that  was  crammed  into  me  would  have  turned  the 
dream  into  a  nightmare.  Do  you  begin  to  under- 
stand? 

"What  is  it  to  me  that  I  know  something  of  the 
history  of  people  who  perished  from  the  face  of  the 
earth  before  you  whites  knew  that  the  Indian  existed  ? 
What  does  it  mean  to  me  that  the  world  teems  with 
people  who  think  things  of  which  the  Indian  never 
dreamed  ?  whose  houses  are  put  down  to  stay  ?  whose 
every  impulse  is  forward,  to  the  attainment  of  ideals 
still  beyond,  who  have  learned  the  deepest  secrets  of 
Nature,  who  have  harnessed  the  lightning,  and  made 
the  boiling  kettle  do  their  work?  What  is  it  to  me 
that  these  are  the  people  who  accomplish  things,  who 
rule  the  world,  and  yet  whose  refinement  is,  to  the 
Indian's,  as  the  razor  blade  to  the  stone  tomahawk? 
Education!  It  has  opened  my  eyes,  Livingston,  to 
beautiful  facts  on  the  one  hand,  to  the  ugliest  on  the 

60 


STRONGHEART 

other.  It  has  smoothed  some  of  my  rough  edges,  per- 
haps, and  by  so  much  unfitted  me  for  Indian  life.  Bet- 
ter, far  better,  if  I  had  been  left  in  contented  ignor- 
ance!" 

"I  can't  believe  it!"  cried  Livingston.  "When  a 
man's  view  has  been  broadened,  it  must  be  better  for 
him." 

"There  may  be  some  mysterious  benefit  to  arise  from 
it  some  time,"  said  Strongheart,  gloomily,  "but  surely 
you  must  admit  the  uselessness  of  my  particular  at- 
tainments." 

"Yes,  here,  but  you  do  not  belong  here,  Strong- 
heart.  When  man  emerges  from  the — er — "  it  was 
on  the  tip  of  his  tongue  to  say  "savage,"  but  he  caught 
himself  in  time  and  said,  "primitive  state,  he  should 
stay  on  the  level  to  which  he  has  raised  himself.  I 
remember  reading  that  Colonel  Pratt,  the  head  of  the 
Indian  school  at  Carlisle,  said  that  'if  you  would 
civilize  the  Indian,  bring  him  into  civilization  and 
keep  him  there'  or  something  to  that  effect.  I  under- 
stand now  what  he  meant.  You  are  one  of  us,  Strong- 
heart,  and  I  mean  to  see  that  you  stay  with  us." 

The  Indian,  who  had  been  standing  half  way  across 
the  wigwam  during  his  bitter  speech,  strode  to  the 
bed  and  held  out  his  hand.  "Thank  you,"  said  he, 
his  eyes  glowing  with  gratitude  and  pride ;  "your  gen- 
erous intention  is  impossible  of  accomplishment,  but 
it  makes  me  eternally  your  friend  that  you  should  think 
of  it." 

"But  why  impossible?"  urged  Livingston.  "Surely 
you  are  not  a  prisoner  in  the  wilderness?*' 

61 


STRONGHEART 

"Would  you  have  me  go  to  some  city  and  seek  em- 
ployment as  a  harness-maker?" 

"No;  there  must  be  something  better  for  you  than 
that." 

"I  can  do  nothing  else — except  such  unskilled  labor 
as  any  strong  man  can  do.  It  is  not  that  I  object  to 
work.  I'd  make  harnesses,  or  load  ships,  if  such  labor 
brought  the  advantages  that  I  see  in  your  civilization. 
They  do  not.  I'd  rather  stay  among  my  own  people 
than  herd  with  yours  in  their  crowded  tenements.  Tell 
me,  does  the  life  of  your  laboring  people  seem  in  any 
way  superior  to  ours  ?" 

"Inferior,  so  far  as  I  can  see,"  said  Livingston.  "I 
confess  I  don't  know  much  about  the  life  of  our  work- 
ing people,  but,  seen  from  the  outside  it  is  certainly 
sordid  and  narrow  compared  with  the  life  here.  The 
point  is,  Strongheart,  you  feel  yourself  qualified  by 
Nature  for  something  higher." 

"Yes,  but  there's  no  use  talking  about  it." 

"Yes,  there  is!  The  next  point  is  that  you  didn't 
go  far  enough  in  the  education  line." 

"Certainly.    A  smattering  of  this  and  that — 

"Then  you  must  finish  your  education.  What's  the 
matter  with  your  entering  Columbia?  Frank  and  I 
could  be  a  whole  lot  of  use  to  you  there." 

Strongheart  looked  as  if  the  suggestion  took  his 
breath  away.  The  young  white  man's  words  gave  to 
the  alluring  dream  a  distinctness  of  outline  such  as 
never  had  been  the  case  with  those  longings  that  had 
risen  in  the  Indian's  mind  without  external  sugges- 
tion; and  Livingston's  confident  manner  dangled  the 

62 


STRONGHEART 

bait  of  possibility  before  the  red  man's  hungering  soul. 
For  the  moment  it  seemed  to  Strongheart  that  the 
dream  might  be  realized,  for  what  could  not  these 
white  men  do?  Much  as  he  may  condemn,  or  affect 
to  despise  civilization,  the  observing  Indian  respects  it, 
for  he  sees  its  power,  and  when  a  representative  of 
the  pale  race  wins  the  Indian's  respect  as  an  individual, 
he  is,  subconsciously  to  the  Indian  perhaps,  a  wizard 
in  whose  hands  the  very  traditions  of  an  unlettered 
people  dissolve  more  readily  than  snow  melts  under 
the  April  sun.  For,  of  all  things  open  to  Indian  ap- 
prehension, his  traditions  are  the  most  permanent. 
Knowledge  slowly  uproots  superstition,  the  clean-cut, 
Christian  myth  supplants  the  vague  doctrines  of  In- 
dian polytheism,  and  eventually  the  traditions  fade 
into  memories  recalled  only  with  shamefaced  amuse- 
ment; but  by  then  the  Indian's  forests  have  disap- 
peared before  the  pioneer,  his  hills  have  been  leveled 
by  the  miner  and  road-maker,  even  his  lakes  have  be- 
come unrecognizable  with  their  smoking,  shrieking 
fleets. 

"Come,"  said  Livingston,  as  Strongheart  stood 
transfixed  with  desire,  "why  shouldn't  you?  How  old 
are  you?" 

"I'm  not  sure,"  Strongheart  replied  huskily;  "twen- 
ty-four, I  think." 

"Well,  there's  many  a  'Special'  at  Columbia  older 
than  that.  It  would  be  all  right  if  you  were  forty. 
Now  then!" 

"It  is  impossible,  Livingston.  You  do  not  yet  un- 
derstand. We  are  a  patriarchal  people.  The  govern- 

63 


STRONGHEART 

ment  has  told  us  to  elect  our  chiefs,  and  we  obey,  but 
we  elect  whom  we  think  right,  and  my  people  think 
the  son  of  the  Chief  is  he  who  should  guide  them. 
You  asked  if  I  were  a  prisoner  in  the  wilderness? 
Perhaps  that's  the  way  to  put  it,  for  I  am  bound  by 
the  customs  of  my  race.  There  is  such  a  thing  as 
obligation" — he  spoke  with  unusual  hesitancy,  the 
effect,  though  Livingston  guessed  it  not  at  the  moment, 
of  a  powerful  temptation.  "My  people  expect  me, 
with  my  superior  education,  to  be  wiser  in  their  inter- 
ests than  were  my  fathers." 

"Then,"  cried  Livingston,  "they  must  see  that  your 
services  would  be  more  valuable  with  more  education." 

"You  can't  make  them  think  so.  Many  now  feel, 
as  I  do,  that  I  have  too  much.  More  would  make  me 
impossible  in  the  wilderness,  save  as  the  white  man 
comes  here  for  recreation  and  amusement.  No,  I  am 
bound  to  my  people.  I  could  not  go  to  Columbia,  and 
then  return  to  them." 

"Well,"  and  Livingston  hesitated  a  moment,  de- 
ciding eventually  not  to  utter  the  thought  that  Strong- 
heart's  argument  suggested,  for,  to  the  white  man,  the 
obligations  of  Strongheart  to  his  people  were  of  less 
interest  than  the  obligations  of  Strongheart  to  him- 
self. Suppose  the  handsome  young  Indian  did  go 
back  to  civilization  never  to  return;  was  it  thinkable 
that  the  simple  forest-dwellers  would  be  any  the 
worse?  Hardly,  for  they  would  pursue  their  tranquil 
lives  as  before,  lives  in  which,  now  that  the  days  of 
Indian  wars  have  gone,  nothing  happens  from  year 
to  year  save  so  many  births,  so  many  deaths,  the  color- 

64 


STRONGHEART 

less  routine  of  an  unprogressive  community.  So, 
"The  cost  wouldn't  have  to  be  counted,  would  it?" 
asked  Livingston. 

"We  do  not  look  like  a  wealthy  people,  do  we?" 
Strongheart  replied  with  a  smile.  "There  is  much 
land  hereabout  that  is  still  ours,  and  the  white  man 
wants  it.  Some  are  coming  today  to  talk  sale.  How- 
ever, I  can  answer  your  question  by  saying  that  while 
the  cost  would  have  to  be  considered,  it  would  not 
stay  in  the  way — not  of  itself.  You  see,  my  people 
would  regard  it  as  an  investment." 

He  looked  steadfastly  at  Livingston,  who  returned 
his  gaze  as  steadily.  In  their  mood  it  was  not  wise  for 
either  to  comment  on  the  silent  message  that  went 
from  one  to  the  other;  not  wise  even  for  Livingston 
to  say,  "We  understand  each  other" ;  for  it  was  palpa- 
ble to  Livingston  that  the  Indian  was  tempted  by  the 
glamor  of  the  broader  life  to  go  to  it  and  let  his  people 
do  without  him ;  and  Livingston  believed,  with  all  the 
earnestness  of  clean-minded  youth,  that  the  future  of 
the  individual  Indian  was  of  more  importance  than 
the  shadowy  advantages  that  might  accrue  to  his  peo- 
ple in  retaining  him. 

"I  am  going  to  talk  with  your  father  about  it,"  said 
Livingston,  decisively. 

Strongheart  smiled  faintly,  and  then  his  face  took 
on  the  characteristic  gravity  of  his  race.  "You  will 
not  persuade  him,"  said  he.  "The  very  mention  of 
my  father  is  enough  to  remind  me  how  foolish  I  am 
even  to  dream  of  what  you  propose." 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Livingston,  with  undimin- 
65 


STRON GHEART 

ished  confidence,  "I'll  put  up  a  good  argument  at  the 
first  opportunity  I  get.  Tell  me,  He  doesn't  need  an 
interpreter,  does  he?" 

"No  more  than  I  do,  though,  of  course,  there  are, 
many  words  he  does  not  know,  and  he  may  make  mis- 
takes." 

"I  noticed  that  he  spoke  English  readily  enough, 
and  yet  he  often  said  things  in  Ojibway  for  you  to 
interpret.  Was  that  with  the  idea  of  making  you 
useful?" 

"Oh,  no.  He  would  be  sorry  to  make  laughable 
errors,  and  when  there  is  an  interpreter  at  command; 
he  won't  trust  himself.  There  are  many  Indians  like 
him  in  that  respect." 

"Then  I'll  tackle  him  alone." 


66 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE   SQUARE-DEALERS 

Strongheart  went  back  to  the  work  which  he  and 
Mukwa  had  begun  together,  and  his  place  was  im- 
mediately taken  by  Nelson,  who,  having  obtained  a 
number  of  film  presentments  of  babies  and  wigwam 
interiors,  had  been  idling  anxiously  until  the  confer- 
ence should  be  ended.  "Well?"  said  he,  by  way  of 
asking  for  a  report. 

"Frank,"  Livingston  responded,  "Strongheart  is  a 
great  man!" 

It  was  the  sincere  tribute  of  enthusiasm  based  on 
its  own  generous  sentiment  instead  of  on  knowledge, 
fired  not  by  the  subject's  deeds  but  by  the  passionate 
egotism  of  his  speech.  How  much  or  little  Strong- 
heart  deserved  the  encomium,  Livingston  was  to 
learn  by  degrees,  when  occasion  should  arise  for 
action,  and  he  had  not  long  to  wait  for  a  revelation 
of  that  sort ;  but  at  present  he  was  as  positive  in  his 
estimate  of  his  new  found  friend  as  if  the  Indian's 
career  had  been  under  observation  for  a  lifetime,  for 
of  such  is  hero  worship,  and  such  the  glorious 
spontaneity  of  youth. 

Nelson  caught  the  infection  mildly,  and  was  prop- 
erly interested  when  his  chum  outlined  the  conversa- 

67 


STRONGHEART 

tion  and  announced  his  plan  of  inducing  the  Chief 
to  send  Strongheart  to  Columbia. 

"Will  he  do  it?"  he  asked. 

"Not  if  it  isn't  put  up  to  him,  and  that's  what  I 
must  do  soon  so  as  to  give  him  plenty  of  time  to 
think.  He'll  be  slower  than  Strongheart,  because 
he's  less  civilized,  but  he'll  come  to  it.  He's  got  to ! 
You  see,  here  I  am,  knocked  out,  useless  to  myself, 
and  I  propose  to  make  it  my  business  to  save 
Strongheart  to  civilization." 

"Missionary  work,"  said  Nelson.  "Captain  Dick 
Livingston,  of  the  New  Salvation  Army,  devoted 
especially  to  the  preservation  of  semi-civilized  ab- 
orig-" 

"You  be  hanged!  You  couldn't  laugh  me  out  of 
this  scheme  even  if  you  seriously  tried  to." 

"Serious  laughter?" 

Livingston  scorned  to  retort.  "See  where  the 
Chief  is,"  said  he.  "Perhaps  you  can  send  him  in 
now." 

Nelson  surveyed  the  village  from  the  wigwam 
door.  "Guess  you'll  have  to  postpone  the  confab," 
he  said.  "The  Chief  and  quite  a  crowd  are  at  the 
shore  watching  a  flotilla  of  three  canoes  away  out 
on  the  lake.  Probably  they  are  bringing  the  men 
we  have  heard  of  who  are  coming  to  negotiate  for 
some  of  the  Indians'  land." 

"Hm,"  murmured  Livingston,  &  little  disap- 
pointed. "I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  wait  till  after 
the  council.  Meantime  I'll  write  letters.  Open  my 
kit  and  get  out  my  writing  pad,  will  you,  Frank? 

68 


STRONGHEART 

They've    got    to    be    written    sometime,    you   know," 
he  concluded  apologetically. 

"Good  idea,"  said  Nelson,  complying  with  alac- 
rity. "It'll  help  you  kill  time.  Must  be  awfully  dull 
cooped  up  here." 

"Hasn't  been  a  dull  minute  yet,  and  I  don't  mean 
that  there  shall  be.  You  mustn't  think  you've  got 
to  hang  around  here  to  coddle  me,  old  fellow.  What 
with  letters,  and  my  scheme  for  Strongheart,  there's 
plenty  to  occupy  my  mind.  Be  a  good  fellow,  now, 
and  go  out.  There'll  probably  be  a  picture  or  two 
in  the  arrival  of  the  flotilla.  Perhaps  the  [Indians 
will  put  up  some  sort  of  ceremony.  You  mustn't 
miss  it." 

"Thanks,  Dick.  I  should  feel  just  as  you  do  if  I 
were  in  your  place,  but  are  you  quite  sure  you  won't 
want  anything  for  an  hour  or  so?" 

"I  can  yell  if  I  do." 

"Of  course.  Well,  then,  so  long.  And,  by  the 
way,  Dick,  as  you've  got  so  much  time  for  it,  why 
not  save  me  one  letter?  Write  to  Dorothy,  will 
you?" 

"Dorothy?"  echoed  Livingston,  who  found  it  nec- 
essary to  squint  hard  at  the  tip  of  his  fountain  pen. 

"Yes.  She'll  take  it  kindly  of  you,  I'm  sure.  She 
expects  letters  from  me,  and  of  course  I  ought  to 
write  her.  You  explain  how  busy  I  am  getting  pic- 
tures for  her  souvenir  book.  You  might  say  you  vol- 
unteered to  write  for  me,  or  that  I  asked  you,  just  as 
you  like.  Writing  brotherly  letters  is  such  drudg- 
ery, you  know.  Will  you?" 

69 


STRONGHEART 

Livingston  looked  up  at  his  chum.  There  was  no 
sparkle  in  Nelson's  eyes,  no  twitching  of  his  lips  to 
suggest  anything  but  entire  seriousness  in  his  re- 
quest. "Yes,"  said  Livingston,  calmly,  "I'll  write  to 
Dorothy." 

"Thanks,  old  fellow.  I'll  add  a  postscript  if  you 
think  it  would  be  better." 

"I  guess  it  won't  be  necessary,"  said  Livingston, 
and  for  a  full  minute  after  his  chum's  departure  he 
stared  at  the  spot  where  he  had  stood,  wondering 
if  it  were  possible  that  Nelson  concealed  a  joke 
beneath  his  apparent  earnestness.  "How  could  he  ?" 
he  ^queried  silently.  "Dorothy  herself  doesn't  know, 
and,  besides,  it  would  be  most  unlike  Frank  to  string 
a  fellow  on  that  subject,  or  do  any  joshing  that  could 
be  regarded  as  offensive.  He  meant  it.  He  simply 
can't  get  up  interest  enough  in  his  own  sister  to 
write  to  her.  If  she  were  my  sister,  now,  I'd  bet — 
but  it  was  so  obvious  that  Frank  would  adore 
Dorothy  if  she  were  not  his  sister,  that  Livingston 
forbore  to  state  his  wager. 

He  had  recourse  to  the  pocketbook,  the  loss  of 
which  had  been  tfce  occasion  of  his  misadventure  in 
the  Pangisibi,  and  so  of  his  acquaintance  with 
Strongheart,  and  took  from  it  the  letter  which  had 
seemed  more  valuable  to  him  than  his  money.  Many 
times  he  had  pored  over  it  since  it  came  to  him  at  the 
Soo.  There  was  nothing  in  it  that  required  study, 
nothing  incomprehensible  except  the  uplifting  fact 
that  Dorothy  Nelson  had  condescended  from  her  an- 
gelic state  to  write  to  such  a  commonplace  mortal  as 

70 


STRONGHEART 

himself;  it  was  merely  the  friendly  letter  of  a  sen- 
sible girl  to  her  worthy  boy-friend,  untinctured  by 
sentimentalism,  devoid  of  gush — a  wholesome,  nat- 
ural missive  from  one  who  had  been  a  friend  for 
three  long  years,  an  eternity  at  twenty-one ;  but  it 
was  the  first  letter  that  Frank  Nelson's  sister  ever 
had  written  to  Dick  Livingston,  and  he  studied  it 
now  as  if  love's  exegesis  might  discover  between  the 
lines,  if  not  in  them,  the  reflection  at  least  of  the 
ardent  love  for  her  that  had  taken  possession  of  him. 
It  was  not  such  an  easy  task  to  write  to  Dorothy 
even  if  she  were  another  fellow's  sister,  not  in  the 
beginning.  God  bless  me !  what  hesitation  over  the 
purely  conventional  address !  We  (we  old  ones) 
"Dear  Sir"  the  tradesman,  and  "Dear  Madam,"  or 
"Dear  Miss"  the  occasional  correspondent,  without 
a  thought  of  the  significance  attaching  literally  to 
that  initial  word,  but  when  it  comes  to  using  it 
in  addressing  a  girl  one  really  does  regard  as  dear,  it 
makes  a  difference,  doesn't  it — at  twenty-one?  It 
seems  so  preposterously  daring,  such  an  assumption 
of  desirable  but  not  confessed  relationship,  such  a 
challenge  to  the  maid's  sensibilities.  What  if  she 
should  read  in  the  conventional  word  the  whole 
meaning  with  which  it  is  really  charged,  and  take 
offense  ?  Oh,  absurdity !  delightful,  wholesome  ab- 
surdity! 

Livingston  had  written  the  date  line,  "The  Wilder- 
ness, July  20,  1901,"  and  had  poised  his  pen  over  the 
otherwise  virgin  sheet  for  many  seconds,  perhaps 
tvvar   minutes,  before  he  took  another  spasmodic 

71 


STRONGHEART 

look  at  her  letter.  Sure  enough,  there  it  was,  "Dear 
Dick,"  and  so,  with  devilish  boldness,  he  began 
"Dear  Dorothy,  I  am  writing  in  the  wigwam  of  an 
Indian  Chief,"  and  proceeded  then  with  sufficient 
fluency  to  write  an  unsentimental,  wholesome  letter, 
just  such  a  letter  as  a  sensible  boy  should  write,  and 
sometimes  does,  to  a  worthy  girl  friend. 

Long  before  the  letter  was  finished,  the  three 
canoes  had  brought  the  men  who  came  to  negotiate 
for  land.  There  were  five  of  these  enterprising  voy- 
agers, all  from  across  the  line,  and  all  strangers  to 
Kiwetin  and  his  tribesmen,  except  one,  Tom  Marsh. 
who  had  dealt  with  the  Ojibways  in  one  way  and 
another  for  so  many  years  that  he  had  acquired  some 
knowledge  of  their  language.  Either  because  he  dis- 
trusted his  proficiency,  or  because  it  was  thought 
politic  to  have  an  Indian  act  as  interpreter,  the  party 
included  Pierre  Larocque,  a  half-breed  with  whom 
everybody  in  Kiwetin's  band  was  acquainted,  al- 
though he  owed  Kiwetin  no  allegiance.  Pierre  was 
on  the  government  roll  as  an  O  jib  way,  and  nomi- 
nally was  settled  on  a  reservation  far  eastward,  but 
he  was  seldom  there,  save  on  the  days  when  the 
agent  arrived  to  distribute  the  Indians'  funds.  Then 
Pierre  appeared  at  the  Council  House  with  the  rest, 
and  waited  with  ill  suppressed  impatience  for  his 
share  of  the  money.  Some  of  his  acquaintances  as- 
serted that  he  drew  double  pay  from  the  government 
by  posing  under  an  assumed  name  as  member  of  a 
distant  tribe,  and  that  his  incessant  journeying  was 
due  to  the  necessity  of  putting  in  periodical  appear- 

73 


STRONGHEART 

ances  at  each  reservation ;  but  this  is  to  be  doubted, 
the  allegation  being  probably  an  ingenuous  tribute 
to  Pierre's  unusual  perception  of  the  value  of  money. 

The  white  strain  in  him  was  responsible  for  a 
mania  for  bargaining,  and  seeking  to  gain  money 
by  a  kind  of  effort  which,  to  the  self-deceived  op- 
erator, is  not  work.  If  Pierre  had  been  all  white  he 
would  have  been  a  promoter.  He  was  not  popular 
with  the  Indians,  partly  because  of  his  mixed  blood, 
but  more  because  his  honesty  was  in  doubt. 
Methods  which  to  his  apprehension  were  simple 
matters  of  business,  seemed  to  Kiwetin's  people 
tainted  with  some  manner  of  elusive  obliquity. 
Whites  who  understood  this  were  chary  of  engaging 
him  as  interpreter,  but  Pierre  vaunted  himself  as  a 
man  of  influence  all  over  Ojibway  land,  and  from 
time  to  time  obtained  such  employment  as  that 
that  now  brought  him  to  the  summer  village. 

Chief  Kiwetin  deemed  it  advisable  to  have  an  un- 
derstanding with  Pierre  before  the  business  in  hand 
came  under  discussion.  "Let  us  settle  the  thing 
now,"  said  the  Chief.  "If  we  sell  to  these  men,  we 
sell  at  the  price  agreed  on,  and  nobody,  you  or  any- 
one else  has  any  claim  to  any  part  of  it.  Is  that 
so?" 

"It  is  so,"  Pierre  replied.  "Jj  am  here  merely  to 
say  what  these  people  say.  They  employ  me.  I 
am  satisfied  with  what  thy  pay  me." 

"Then  it  is  understood,"  said  Kiwetin. 

Winterton  overheard  this  conversation,  and  knew 
what  lay  behind  it.  On  an  occasion  when  Pierre 

73 


STRONGHEART 

had  acted  as  interpreter  in  a  negotiation  which  led 
to  the  employment  of  several  members  of  Kiwetin's 
band  by  a  white  contractor,  Pierre  had  claimed  a 
commission.  Kiwetin  and  the  rest  were  mystified. 
It  was  beyond  their  comprehension  that  the  interpre- 
ter had  rendered  them  a  service  which  entitled  him 
to  the  slightest  financial  consideration.  The  matter 
was  argued  in  council  for  days.  Pierre's  argument 
may  readily  be  inferred ;  it  was  such  as  any  white  go- 
between  would  have  employed.  To  the  Indians  it 
smacked  of  robbery.  They  had  sold  their  labor  for 
a  price;  so  much  work,  so  much  money;  if  Pierre 
was  to  be  paid  for  obtaining  them  the  opportunity 
to  earn  money,  where  was  the  money  to  come  from  ? 
Obviously  it  could  not  come  from  what  the  contractor 
paid  them  for  their  work,  for,  according  to  the 
bargain,  work  and  money  balanced.  When  the  work 
was  paid  for,  there  would  be  no  money  left  over, 
unless  the  contractor  had  it,  in  which  case  it  was 
certainly  not  the  part  of  the  Indians  to  take  it  from 
him  and  pay  it  to  Pierre.  If  Pierre  had  a  right  to 
what  he  called  a  per  cent  for  obtaining  work  for  the 
Indians,  he  should  go  to  the  contractor  who  wanted 
hands;  the  Indians  had  not  asked  for  work. 

Pierre  never  obtained  the  commission,  and  so  Ki- 
wetin's people  had  no  specific  grudge  against  him, 
but  the  memory  of  his  obliquitous  attempt  to  mulct 
them  still  rankled,  and  it  was  one  of  the  reasons 
why  the  proposition  of  the  visiting  Yankees  was 
pondered  and  scrutinized  with  extraordinary  care. 

There  was  no  ceremony  attending  the  reception  of 
•,  1 


STRONGHEART 

the  white  party.  Marsh  introduced  his  companions 
to  Kiwetin  with  free  and  easy  cordiality,  and  they 
were  introduced  also  to  some  of  the  older  men, 
among  them  Black  Eagle,  of  whom  Winterton  had 
spoken  to  Livingston  and  Nelson.  The  Indians 
shook  hands  and  said  "Bozho,"  gravely,  every  man 
lit  his  pipe,  and  there  was  a  rambling  conversation 
on  the  weather,  fishing,  and  other  safe  topics,  for 
an  hour  or  more.  Meantime  the  Indians  who  had 
accompanied  the  whites  as  paddlers,  set  up  tents 
at  one  end  of  the  village,  and  presently  the  whole 
community  was  engaged  in  the  midday  meal.  This 
finished,  the  old  men  sat  on  the  ground  in  front  of 
Chief  Kiwetin's  wigwam,  and  the  whites  perched 
on  a  log  that  lay  conveniently  near. 

These  men  from  the  States,  it  appeared,  were 
eager  to  be  on  the  friendliest  terms  with  the  Indians, 
ambitious  to  be  known  as  square-dealers.  They  had 
no  desire  to  take  advantage  of  the  Ojib way's  inex- 
perience in  business;  on  the  contrary,  they  would 
be  happy  to  initiate  their  dusky  friends  into  modern 
methods,  and  enable  them  to  benefit  much  more  than 
they  could  if  the  transaction  were  of  the  usual  sale- 
and-purchase  order.  Co-operation  is  what  we  want, 
men  and  brothers,  said  the  whites.  You  have  land 
on  which  stands  a  great  forest  of  white  pine.  We 
can  turn  that  forest  into  money.  It  will  be  a  work  of 
years;  it  will  require  the  building  of  roads,  and  the 
employment  of  many  men,  preferably  Indians,  in  fell- 
ing trees,  driving  logs,  cooking,  and  so  forth.  That 
means  the  outlay  of  much  money  before  any  comes 

75 


back.  Very  well,  we  have  the  money,  you  the  trees 
and  labor.  We  propose  to  share  with  you.  We  will 
employ  the  Indians  at  the  usual  wages  and  pay 
cash,  and  we  will  give  the  tribe  a  one-third  interest 
in  the  company  for  the  right  to  make  roads,  cut 
and  remove  trees.  It  is  all  regular.  We  are  incor- 
porated under  the  laws  of  one  of  the  States,  which 
means  that  our  company  is  subject  to  the  govern- 
ment at  Washington,  and  therefore  sound,  upright, 
and  all  that  is  worthy  of  confidence. 

Such,  in  very  brief,  was  the  substance  of  the 
speech  in  which  Marsh  stated  the  proposition  when 
the  council  at  last  proceeded  to  business,  and  after 
Marsh  had  spoken  ten  minutes  or  so,  Pierre  spoke 
for  at  least  a  half  hour,  every  Ojibway  listening 
intently,  the  whites  doing  their  best  not  to  look 
bored.  Marsh  had  the  charter  of  the  company,  bear- 
ing a  great  seal  of  state,  to  offer  as  evidence  of  some 
part  of  his  assertions,  and  he  also  had  a  contract 
drawn  up  ready  for  signature  by  which  the  com- 
pany bound  itself  to  convey  so  many  shares  of  stock 
to  the  tribe  in  consideration  of  the  privilege  of  tim- 
ber cutting  on  a  specifically  defined  tract  of  land. 
The  latter  detail  required  a  second  speech  from 
Marsh  in  explanation  of  the  unusual  method  of  de- 
fining the  boundaries  of  the  tract  in  question.  His 
friends,  in  their  altruistic  anxiety  to  do  the  wholly 
square  thing,  had  chosen  not  to  make  vague  bound- 
aries by  lines  from  hill  to  hill,  or  from  hill  to  lake- 
end,  and  so  forth,  a  method  which  in  an  unsurveyed 
country  was  surcharged  with  possibilities  of  misun- 

76 


STRONGHEART 

derstandings  and  disputes,  but  had  decided  to  offer 
the  Indians  a  definition  of  boundary  that  would  be 
indisputable  even  if  the  lakes  dried  up  and  the  hills 
blew  away  in  the  night.  They  proposed  to  define 
the  tract  in  terms  of  latitude  and  longitude,  which, 
as  anybody  would  tell  them,  was  fixed  by  the  British 
government,  and  couldn't  possibly  be  misinterpre- 
ted; and  the  rough  map  of  the  tract,  herewith  sub- 
mitted, showed  how  the  parallels  of  latitude  and  the 
meridians  of  longitude  would  run.  The  tract  would 
include  a  part  of  the  lake  before  them,  useless 
for  timber-men,  but,  like  other  lakes,  falling 
naturally  within  the  space  required.  And  after 
all,  the  lakes  and  the  hills  would  still  be  the 
Indians'  property  when  the  Company  had  done 
its  work. 

A  good  forty-five  minutes  of  Pierre's  eloquence 
followed,  and  afterwards  Kiwetin  and  Black  Eagle 
asked  questions.  These  and  the  answers  pushed  the 
hours  along  until  evening,  when  the  Chief  intimated 
that  the  Indians  must  have  time  to  think  it  over. 
With  many  manifestations  of  cordial  good  feeling, 
the  white  men  shook  hands  all  around  and  with- 
drew to  their  camp. 

So  far  as  the  Indians  were  concerned  the  discus- 
sion went  on  uninterruptedly.  The  squaws  patiently 
kept  the  corn  soup  hot,  and  waited  for  their  men  to 
come  and  eat  it.  The  largest  group  gathered  about 
Black  Eagle,  who  was  respected  second  only  to 
the  Chief  himself,  and  this  group  Kiwetin  joined 
after  he  had  courteously  accompanied  the  visitors 

77 


STRONGHEART 

to  their  camp  and  invited  them  to  come  to  his  wig- 
wam after  supper  for  a  social  smoke. 

"I'd  like  to  know  something  more  about  this  lati- 
tude and  longitude  business,"  Black  Eagle  was  say- 
ing, as  Kiwetin  drew  near. 

"So  would  I,"  said  Kiwetin.  "The  words  are  new 
to  me,  and  I  cannot  understand  how  these  people 
find  the  lines  which,  as  they  say,  are  always  in  the 
same  place,  and  yet  nobody  ever  sees  them." 

"There  are  lines  everywhere  if  you  choose  to  think 
so,"  declared  Tall  Pine,  the  spokesman  of  those  who 
had  been  favorably  impressed  by  the  white  men's 
proposition.  Tall  Pine  was  the  youngest  man  who 
had  voice  and  vote  in  the  Council.  "They  have  ma- 
chines," he  continued,  "for  finding  where  the  lines 
are  when  they  travel  on  the  big  bitter  sea  water  far 
to  the  east.  If  the  lines  can  be  found  on  water, 
surely  they  can  be  found  on  land." 

This  was  a  reasonable  view,  everybody  admitting 
that  anything  that  could  endure  on  the  unstable 
element,  would  readily  be  fixed  on  the  solid; 
"But,"  urged  Black  Eagle,  "I  don't  feel  sure  yet 
about  these  lines.  Let's  ask  Soangetaha.  He  might 
know." 

"Surely,"  said  Kiwetin;  "let  us  see  what  he  says." 

Strongheart  was  summoned  from  supper,  which 
he  was  taking  with  Livingston  and  Nelson.  "Yes," 
he  said  rather  sulkily  in  reply  to  the  question,  "there 
is  such  a  thing  as  latitude  and  longitude." 

"What  is  it?" 

"It's  a  way  the  whites  of  all  nations  have  of  de- 
78 


STRON GHEART 

ciding  where  the  boundary  lines  lie.  It  has  some- 
thing to  do  with  the  sun,  I  believe." 

"Well,  suppose  the  lines  are  fixed  when  the  sun  is 
far  to  the  north  in  summer;  won't  they  change  when 
the  sun  goes  south  in  winter?" 

Strongheart  looked  uncomfortably  at  the  Chiei, 
who  asked  the  question.  "I  don't  know,"  he  an- 
swered, "but  I  think  not.  Livingston  and  Nelson 
might  know." 

Black  Eagle  was  manifestly  disappointed  that 
Strongheart  could  not  throw  positive  light  on  the 
subject,  but  he  approved  the  suggestion  of  asking 
the  white  visitors  about  it.  "They  seem  to  be  honest 
young  men,"  said  he,  "and,  anyway,  there's  nothing 
they  want  of  the  Indians." 

Kiwetin  also  approved  the  suggestion  and  said 
he  would  undertake  the  inquiry;  then,  although  this 
point  was  the  only  one  that  seemed  to  stand  in  the 
way  of  progress  to  a  conclusion  on  the  main  subject, 
the  Chief  remained  talking  with  Black  Eagle  and  the 
others  for  quite  an  hour.  There  was  no  hurry;  Liv- 
ingston could  not  run  away  even  if  he  wanted  to ; 
Nelson  surely  would  not  go  without  his  chum ;  the 
night  was  young;  indeed,  the  summer  was  but  half 
passed ;  the  forest  of  white  pine  would  stand  for  an- 
other year,  if  necessary.  Not  that  the  Chief 
reasoned  with  himself  in  this  way,  but  that  such 
would  have  been  the  manner  of  his  reasoning  if  he 
had  considered  the  matter  from  the  viewpoint  of 
time.  The  probable  fact  is  that  time  did  not  enter 
into  his  mental  processes  at  all,  that  being  the  last 

79 


STRONGHEART 

item  which  the  Indian  comes  to  appreciate  as  he 
approaches  civilization.  So  Livingston  might  never 
have  been  examined  with  regard  to  his  knowledge 
of  latitude  and  longitude,  but  as  it  happened,  Kiwe- 
tin  drifted  into  the  wigwam  just  after  dusk.  At  the 
moment  Livingston  was  alone,  Nelson  and  Winter- 
ton  having  started  for  their  quarters  for  the  night. 
Livingston  was  eager  to  take  up  the  matter  of  Strong- 
heart's  further  education,  but  the  Chief  put  his  ques- 
tions, and  they  had  to  be  answered.  The  young  white 
man  did  his  best  to  explain  the  subject,  and  Kiwetin 
followed  with  apparent  understanding. 

"Then,"  said  the  Chief,  "these  men  talk  truth,  is 
it?" 

"It  is  true,"  Livingston  answered,  "that  boundary 
lines  established  in  terms  of  latitude  and  longitude 
are  exact  and  indisputable." 

He  was  about  to  phrase  his  reply  in  simpler  words, 
when  Marsh  and  two  others  of  the  company  ap- 
peared for  the  social  smoke,  and  Kiwetin  went  to 
the  door  to  greet  them.  They  did  not  come  in,  for 
the  noise  of  a  ruction  in  the  village  attracted  their 
attention,  and  they  went  forth  together  to  learn 
what  it  was  about.  Nelson,  who  had  lingered  to 
watch  a  large  family  at  supper  in  a  wigwam,  chanced 
to  witness  nearly  the  whole  affair.  He  heard  a  wo- 
man's voice  raised  in  frightened  protest,  and  turned 
in  time  to  see  Strongheart  rush  upon  a  white  man 
and  strike  him  violently  in  the  face.  The  white  man 
staggered  but  kept  his  feet,  and,  in  the  brief  interval 
before  he  returned  the  Indian's  attack,  Nelson  saw 

80 


STKONGHEAKT   CAUGHT   THE   WHITE  MAN   BY   THE   THROAT. 


Page  81. 


STRONGHEART 

a  good  looking  young  woman  stepping  hastily 
aside.  She  went  to  the  door  of  a  small  wigwam, 
where  she  stopped  and  watched  the  fight,  holding 
the  hem  of  her  apron  against  her  lips  with  both 
hands. 

The  white  man,  snarling  with  rage,  parried  a  blow 
or  two  before  he  fully  recovered  his  balance,  for 
Strongheart  was  following  up  his  assault  furiously, 
and  then,  for  a  moment,  there  was  an  exchange 
of  ineffective  blows,  the  white  saving  himself  by 
superior  skill  against  the  Indian's  superior  force.  It 
was  only  a  moment,  for  Strongheart,  manifestly  in- 
furiated by  his  antagonist's  resistance,  crowded 
upon  him,  regardless  of  blows  that  stung  his  cheeks 
and  mauled  his  body,  caught  the  white  man  by  the 
throat  with  both  hands  and  lifted  him  off  his  feet, 
shaking  him,  and  tightening  the  grip  on  his  wind- 
pipe till  his  jaws  parted  in  terror  and  pain.  A  yelling 
crowd  had  begun  to  gather  from  the  first,  through 
which  Winterton  lumbered  heavily  but  swiftly,  like 
a  buck  moose  breaking  through  the  bush.  He  seized 
Strongheart  by  the  arms,  wrenching  his  hands  from 
the  white  man's  throat. 

"Easy,  lad,  you'll  kill  him !"  exclaimed  Winterton. 

"Damn  him !  that's  what  I  want  to  do !"  Strong- 
heart  responded  fiercely. 

Winterton  spoke  then  in  Ojibway,  his  tone  indica- 
tive of  grave  remonstrance  sharpened  a  bit  by 
sternness.  The  white  man  had  dropped  to  his  knees, 
and  now,  gasping,  arose  slowly,  looking  as  if  doubt- 
ful whether  to  renew  the  combat. 

81 


STRONGHEART 

"If  you've  got  any  sense,"  said  Winterton,  ad- 
dressing him,  "go  to  your  tent." 

Just  then  Kiwetin,  Marsh,  and  the  other  whites 
arrived. 

"What's  the  matter,  Fuller?"  asked  Marsh,  and 
Kiwetin  addressed  his  son  in  peremptory  tones. 
There  was  a  hubbub  of  voices  and  languages,  above 
which  presently  Marsh  was  audible,  cursing  his 
friend  Fuller  with  great  volubility  and  earnestness. 

"Don't  make  no  difference,"  he  bawled,  "you  done 
a  fool  thing,  'n'  'f  I'd  been  in  the  Indian's  place  I'd 
'a'  pulled  your  throat  out.  Now  you  go  back  to  your 
tent,  and  don't  show  yourself  again  tonight.  Git !" 

Imperceptibly,  almost,  after  the  manner  of  strenu- 
ous episodes,  the  confusion  and  excitement  died 
away.  Two  of  the  whites  laid  hold  of  Fuller  and 
hustled  him  to  their  camp.  Strongheart  went  to  the 
wigwam  where  still  stood  the  young  woman,  and 
went  in  with  her.  Kiwetin  and  many  other  men 
lingered,  gabbling.  Nelson  caught  Winterton  by  the 
arm. 

"Come,  Steve,"  he  said,  "Dick  will  want  to  know 
all  about  this,  and  so  do  J.  Get  a  move  on !" 

"Wai,"  Winterton  returned,  in  mild  protest  at  be- 
ing hurried  now  that  there  was  no  emergency  to  stir 
him,  "you  seen  it  all ;  much  as  I  did,  anyhow." 

"Doesn't  seem  as  if  I'd  seen  anything  but  a  red- 
skin battering  ram  in  full  action.  Gee !  what  muscle, 
what  savage  force  that  fellow  has !  If  Fuller  hadn't 
been  a  pretty  good  one  himself,  I  believe  he'd  have 
gone  to  sleep  with  the  first  blow." 

82 


STRONG  HEART 

To  Livingston's  rather  languid  "What  was  the 
row?"  Nelson  replied  with  a  brief  account  of  what 
he  had  seen,  minimizing  in  no  respect  his  admira- 
tion for  Strongheart's  fighting  prowess.  "What  it 
was  all  about  I  don't  know,"  he  concluded.  "Tell 
us,  Steve." 

"Fuller  got  gay  with  Gezhikway,"  said  Winterton. 

"That  girl  who  stood  by  the  wigwam  looking  on  ?" 

Winterton  nodded. 

"Is  she  Strongheart's  sweetheart?"  asked  Living- 
ston. 

"His  sister.  She's  a  widow.  Her  husband  got 
killed  in  a  log  drive  last  Spring." 

"And  that  fellow,  Fuller,  insulted  her?"  suggested 
Nelson,  his  voice  quivering  with  indignation. 

Winterton  nodded  again. 

"I  believe  Strongheart  would  have  killed  him  if 
Steve  hadn't  interfered,"  said  Nelson. 

"Then  he'd  have  got  what  he  deserved,"  said  Liv- 
ingston. 

There  was  silence  for  a  bit,  the  young  men  reflect- 
ing on  the  episode  while  Winterton  filled  his  pipe. 
When  that  essential  article  was  in  working  order,  he 
said,  "That's  one  of  the  things  that  makes  some  of 
the  Indians  down  on  Soangetaha." 

"What !"  exclaimed  Nelson,  hotly,  "defending  his 
sister  from  insult?" 

"No,  not  that,"  and  the  woodsman  seemed  sur- 
prised that  the  young  man  had  not  followed  his  train 
of  thought.  "You  asked  if  Gezhikway  was  his 
sweetheart.  That's  what  I  mean.  He  hasn't  got 

83 


STRONGHEART 

one,  V  aint  likely  to  have.  The  Chief  'n'  the  old 
men  think  he  ought  to  take  a  squaw." 

"I  suppose  Strongheart  feels  above  his  own  peo- 
ple," mused  Nelson.  "Doesn't  he?" 

"Dunno  'bout  that.  Ain't  so  sure  'bout  that.  Any- 
how, that  ain't  the  reason  why  he  don't  take  a 
squaw." 

"Come,  Steve,  smoke  up!"  urged  Livingston. 
"Give  us  the  whole  story." 

"Wai,  you  see,  Soangetaha  had  what  you  might 
call  a  romance.  He  was  mighty  fond  of  a  girl,  she 
was  Black  Eagle's  only  daughter,  as  purty  a  little 
thing  as  you  ever  seen,  red  or  white.  It  was  all  un- 
derstood atween  'em  when  Soangetaha  went  away  to 
school,  'n'  ev'rybody  in  the  tribe  b'lieved  she'd  be  his 
wife  when  she  was  big  enough.  Then  th'  was  a 
white  man  come  to  the  reservation  from  the  Soo 
on  some  business  or  other.  He  seen  Shawanequay 
— that  was  her  name,  you  know — 'South-girl,'  'cause 
she  was  born  one  time  when  Black  Eagle  'n'  his 
family  was  visiting  some  Ojibway  across  the  line. 
'S  I  said,  he  seen  her,  'n'  liked  her  looks,  'n,'  wal, 
she  run  away  with  him.  I  ain't  sayin'  the  hull  blame 
wasn't  hisn,  you  understand.  She  was  only  a  young 
thing  'thouten  any  more  idees  than  most  other  Ojib- 
way girls,  no  schoolin',  'though  I  dunno  as  that 
makes  much  difference.  I  p'sume  mebbe  you  can 
see  how  she  might  git  misled  'thouten  much  blame 
stickin'  to  her.  'Course  he  didn't  marry  her.  Black 
Eagle  tried  to  git  her  to  come  back,  but  she  wouldn't. 
Said  the  man  was  her  husband,  which  he  wasn't, 

84 


STRONGHEART 

though  like  enough  he  made  her  b'lieve  so.    Anyhow 
her  family  had  to  give  it  up. 

"Bimeby  Soangetaha  come  home,  schoolin'  done, 
V  fer  all  I  could  see  at  the  time,  ready  to  settle  down 
'n'  be  an  Indian  like  the  rest,  though  he  would  wear 
city  clo'es,  'n'  you  couldn't  expect  to  change  some  of 
the  manners  he  got  in  the  East.  Fust  thing  he 
asked  about  was  Shawanequay,  'n'  when  he  hearn 
what  they  had  to  tell  him,  he  hiked  it  for  the  Soo. 
I  reckon  'twas  just  as  well  for  that  white  skunk  that 
Soangetaha  didn't  find  him.  He'd  left  the  Soo  some 
time  before  for  parts  unknown,  'n'  of  course  he'd 
left  the  girl  behind.  Seems  he  shook  her  just  before 
her  baby  was  born.  Tfre  little  un  didn't  live  till  her 
mother  got  well,  'n'  she  had  to  go  peggin'  round, 
supportin'  herself  with  what  work  she  could  git  when 
she  oughtta  been  to  a  hospital.  For  these  O  jib  way 
women  ain't  any  tougher,  that  I  can  see,  than  any 
other  kind  when  they  ain't  took  care  of  'n'  treated 
right.  Look  at  the  deaths  from  consumption  on  the 
reservation  every  year! 

"Wai,  Soangetaha  found  her  coughin'  her  lungs 
away,  starvin',  nigh  crazy,  I  guess,  with  grief.  He 
took  her  home,  Soangetaha  did.  She  went  with  him 
that  far,  but  died  within  a  week.  Sence  then  he  ain't 
said  more'n  'Bozho,'  to  any  o'  the  girls  of  the  mar- 
ryin'  age,  'n'  sometimes  I  must  say  he  seems  onduly 
sensitive  'f  a  white  man  looks  sheeps-eyes  at  an  In- 
dian woman." 

"Well,  I  should  think  he  might  be !"  exclaimel 
Nelson,  when  Winterton  had  puffed  so  long  tha*' 

85 


STRONGHEART 

it  was  clear  he  had  finished.  Livingston  made  no 
comment,  but  his  eyes  were  very  bright  as  he  lay  on 
the  bed  and  looked  up  at  the  handful  of  stars  peer- 
ing clown  at  him  through  the  wigwam  vent-hole. 

"  'N'  some  of  the  old  men,"  added  Winterton, 
"think  as  how  he'd  oughtta  git  over  it  'n'  take  a 
squaw  as  a  matter  o'  duty  to  the  tribe,  but  Soange- 
taha  he  don't  seem  to  see  it  in  that  way." 

Then  the  woodsman  pulled  himself  to  his  feet  with 
abundant  manifestations  of  difficulty,  and  lumbered 
off  in  the  darkness  to  his  quarters. 


CHAPTER  VII 

CONSPIRATORS   FOR   JUSTICE 

Next  day  the  council  re-assembled  in  front  of 
Chief  Kiwetin's  wigwam  and  dragged  itself  along, 
hour  after  hour,  without  apparent  progress.  The 
whites,  as  before,  sat  on  the  log,  Fuller  among  them 
with  a  preposterously  swollen  eye,  and  blue  spots 
on  his  throat.  Strongheart,  who  had  taken  no  part 
in  the  proceedings  of  the  previous  day,  now  sat  on 
the  ground  behind  his  father,  his  eyes  downcast,  his 
features  set  in  an  expression  of  sullen  resentment. 
The  only  thoroughly  busy  man  in  the  gathering  was 
Pierre  Larocque,  the  interpreter.  Kiwetin  had  pro- 
fessed himself  satisfied  with  the  definition  of  bound- 
aries by  latitude  and  longitude,  and  now  sought  light 
on  the  joint-stock  feature  of  the  proposition.  Along 
in  the  afternoon  it  became  fairly  evident  that,  if  the 
Indians  should  accept  the  general  proposition,  there 
would  likely  ensue  a  long  delay  while  they  satisfied 
themselves  as  to  the  equitability  of  the  proposed  di- 
vision of  interests.  Such  sticklers  for  exactitude 
were  they,  that  they  might  argue  the  season  out  on 
the  question  whether  their  share  should  properly  be 
one-third,  or  thirty-four  per  cent.  The  purpose  of 
Strongheart's  presence  was  indicated  by  the  fact 

87 


STRONGHEART 

that  now  and  then  Kiwetin  turned  to  him  with  a 
question,  the  answer  to  which  served  to  verify  the 
faithfulness  of  Pierre's  interpretations. 

Winterton  and  Nelson  remained  in  the  wigwam 
for  the  better  part  of  the  forenoon,  but  the  woods- 
man tired  of  the  debate  at  last,  and  wandered  down 
to  the  shore  to  commune  with  his  pipe  alone.  Nelson 
went  restlessly  in  and  out,  and  used  up  films  reck- 
lessly from  sheer  lack  of  anything  better  to  do,  and 
Livingston  fretted  somewhat  to  see  his  chum  so  un- 
satisfactorily occupied.  About  the  middle  of  the 
afternoon  Nelson  announced  that  he  would  try  for 
some  pictures  of  the  village  from  the  lake,  if  he  could 
find  Winterton  to  act  as  paddler.  His  departure  from 
the  wigwam  was  observed  by  one  of  the  whites  who, 
forgetting,  if  he  knew,  that  an  invalid  was  quartered 
there,  presently  left  the  log  and  strolled  around  to 
the  side  of  the  structure  where  he  was  invisible  to 
most  of  the  Indians,  all  of  whom  at  the  moment 
were  listening  with  close  attention  to  a  long  explana- 
tion by  Pierre.  Biding  his  opportunity,  the  white 
man  jerked  his  head  when  he  caught  the  eye  of  one 
of  his  companions,  and  the  latter  shortly  after- 
ward arose  and  strolled  idly  around  the  wigwam. 
These  two  halted  for  their  conference  close  by 
the  spot  where  Livingston  lay,  and  above  the 
eager  drone  of  Pierre's  long  argument,  for  such 
was  the  real  nature  of  his  interpretation,  the 
helpless  guest  heard  what  they  had  to  say  to 
one  another. 

"See  here,"  said  one,  "are  these  redskins  as  stupid 
88 


STRONGHEART 

as  they  seem,  or  is  there  some  devilish  shrewdness 
hidden  underneath?" 

"Getting  tired  of  it?"  asked  the  other,  with  a 
chuckle. 

"  'Tisn't  that  exactly.  I  can  wait  with  the  next 
one,  and  00  don't  forget  that  Marsh  told  us  we 
mustn't  try  to  push  things,  that  the  Indians  are 
bound  to  be  slow,  and  all  that,  but  to  sit  there  and 
hear  that  infernal  gibberish  dribbling  along  by  the 
hour — damn !  it  gets  on  my  nerves.  Do  you  think 
that  cuss,  Pierre,  is  playing  the  game  straight?" 

"Oh,  sure!  Marsh  knows  enough  Ojibway  to  keep 
tabs  on  him,  and  besides,  ain't  he  in  on  it?" 

"Yes,  but  I  didn't  know  but  tribal  loyalty  or  some- 
thing of  that  sort  might  induce  him  to  tip  them  off 
on  the  quiet,  when  this  formal  pow-wow  isn't  in  ses- 
sion, you  know." 

"Guess  we  can  trust  Pierre's  greed  for  that." 

"Mebbe.  I  s'pose  it's  likely  we  can,  but  I  feel 
damnably  doubtful.  That  fool  break  of  Fuller's**—" 

"Don't  worry  about  that.  I  don't  believe  the  red- 
skins will  lay  it  up  against  a  white  man  that  he 
thinks  well  of  one  of  their  women.  It  flatters  the 
race,  don't  you  see?  Anyhow,  Marsh  is  sure  he's 
smoothed  that  over.  No  redskin  could  have  cussed 
Fuller  any  more  fervently  than  he  did.  You've  got 
to  be  patient,  Hayden.  The  stake  is  a  big  one  and 
worth  all  the  time  the  game  takes.  And  I  don't 
think  we  ought  to  talk  about  it  here.  Marsh  says 
Indians  are  observing  cusses,  and  suspicious.  We'd 
better  get  back  to  the  pow-wow." 

89 


STRONGHEART 

"All  right,  but  I  shall  be  nervous  till  we  get  their 
marks  to  the  contract.  Damn!  if  they  should  tumble 
to  that  latitude  business — " 

"They  won't.  They've  approved  that  part  of  the 
deal  already.  Come  on,  and  look  benignant." 

Livingston  was  thrown  into  a  perfect  fever  of  ex- 
citement by  this  dialogue.  Until  this  moment  he 
had  been  disturbed  by  no  special  distrust  of  his 
enterprising  fellow-countrymen,  for  Marsh,  the  only 
one  he  had  heard  speak,  was  engagingly  frank,  and 
his  former  relations  with  the  Indians  had  apparently 
been  of  a  kind  to  establish  a  reputation  for  fair  deal- 
ing. As  for  the  others,  lying  within  the  wigwam  as 
he  did,  he  had  caught  no  more  than  glimpses  of  their 
faces  as  they  passed  the  door,  and  there  was  nothing 
in  such  casual  observation  to  arouse  suspicion.  The 
details  of  the  proposition,  the  definition  of  bound- 
aries by  latitude  and  longitude,  the  joint-stock  ar- 
rangement, and  clauses  in  the  charter  investing  in 
the  company  the  mineral  rights  of  the  land  in 
question,  had  appealed  to  him  merely  as  matters  of 
curious  interest,  and  he  had  observed  the  slow  prog- 
ress of  the  negotiation  with  the  feeling  that  he  was 
learning  something  of  the  methods  of  doing  business 
in  a  strange  land  and  with  strange  people.  Now  it 
was  suddenly  clear  that  the  business  methods  of  the 
strangers  should  be  defined  as  chicanery,  and  he 
burned  with  resentment  against  them,  and  fear  lest 
the  Indians  be  victimized.  His  eager  interest  in 
Strongheart  became  secondary  to  desire  to  save  his 
new  found  friends  from  the  consequences  of  fraud. 

90 


STRONGHEART 

What  could  he  do?  It  might  be  easy  to  expose 
the  whites  by  telling  what  he  had  heard,  and  this 
procedure  would  have  the  inestimable  advantage 
of  enabling  him  to  free  his  mind  in  vigorous  denun- 
ciation of  a  pack  of  swindlers.  Brave,  generous 
youth  longed  to  rush  in,  after  the  manner  of  knights 
of  old,  and  right  the  wrong  on  the  spot ;  but  discre- 
tion counseled  otherwise,  for  sharpers  such  as  these 
might  not  readily  be  confounded  by  a  report  of  a 
fragmentary  conversation.  It  would  never  do, 
thought  Livingston,  to  underestimate  the  strength 
of  the  enemy,  which  was  to  say,  in  this  instance,  the 
enemy's  craft.  Better,  if  possible,  to  take  some  pro- 
cedure that  would  convict  them  of  intended  fraud 
beyond  the  possibility  of  denial;  make  the  enemy 
supply  a  perfectly  obvious  proof  of  duplicity;  but 
how?  And  meantime,  there  was  the  danger  that 
Kiwetin  might  be  persuaded  to  sign  the  papers. 

The  prime  result  of  Livingston's  first  cogitations 
was  a  firm  conviction  that  he  must  play  the  game 
in  Marsh's  way :  oppose  craft  to  craft,  subvert  treach- 
ery by  secret  operations,  and  that  meant  that  noth- 
ing must  be  done  that  might  put  the  rascals  on  their 
guard.  His  blood  ran  cold  as  he  saw  Kiwetin  re- 
ceive a  packet  of  papers  in  his  hand  and  look  gravely 
at  them,  as  if  he  could  read  them.  What  if  he  should 
sign  the  contract  then  and  there?  If  it  should  really 
come  to  that,  Livingston  decided  that  he  would  cry 
out  his  denunciation,  and  trust  to  his  own  belief  in 
the  rascality  of  the  whites  to  persuade  the  Indians  of 
it;  and,  pending  the  necessity  for  aggressive  action, 

91 


STRONGHEART 

he   risked   trying  to   attract   Strongheart's  attention. 

He  snapped  his  fingers  lightly,  and  waved  his 
hand  up  and  down.  Strongheart  sat  in  full  view,  but 
his  attention  at  that  moment  was  absorbed  with 
what  the  .Chief  was  saying  to  him,  and  presently 
the  documents  passed  from  Kiwetin  to  his  son.  For 
quite  a  minute  Strongheart  bent  his  head  over  the 
papers,  and  then  he  began  to  speak  in  his  native 
tongue,  manifestly  translating  the  documents.  Other 
than  the  droning  of  his  voice,  there  was  perfect 
silence  outside,  only  the  occasional,  distant  cries  of 
children  at  play  breaking  the  monotony.  Living- 
ston felt  momentary  relief,  for  the  crisis  was  post- 
poned at  least  until  the  translation  should  have  been 
finished,  but  his  anxiety  returned  when  he  consid- 
ered what  might  happen  immediately  afterward.  If 
Strongheart's  translation  coincided  substantially 
with  the  interpretation  given  by  Pierre,  would  not 
Kiwetin,  and  the  sub-chiefs,  and  the  rest,  sign  the 
contract  ? 

Livingston  never  had  known  keen  agony  of  suspense 
such  as  he  experienced  for  an  hour  or  more  during 
which  Strongheart  droned  over  the  document,  his 
tone  varied  occasionally  as  he  raised  his  head  to  ex- 
plain some  difficult  passage.  At  last,  with  a  great 
throb  of  joy,  Livingston  saw  Nelson,  camera  in  hand, 
swing  around  the  outer  circle  of  the  council.  He 
paused  for  an  exasperating  moment  when  he  was  be- 
hind Strongheart,  looking  down  as  if  to  see  what  the 
Indian  was  reading,  and  then  entered  the  wigwam. 
"Got  some  bully  pict — "  he  began,  and  stopped  ab- 

92 


STRONGHEART 

ruptly,  puzzled  and  not  a  little  startled  by  his  chum's 
dramatic  gesture  of  warning.  Livingston,  with  one 
hand  to  his  lips,  shook  his  head  energetically,  and 
beckoned  with  his  other  hand.  Nelson  drew  near  on 
tip-toe,  frowning  in  perplexity. 

"Don't  say  a  word,  Frank,"  whispered  the  invalid. 
"A  couple  of  those  white  rascals  forgot  that  I  was 
here,  and  I  heard  them  saying  things  behind  the 
wigwam.  The  Chief  mustn't  sign  their  papers.  He 
must  turn  them  down,  understand?  They've  just 
seen  you  come  in,  so  it  will  be  all  right  if  you  go 
to  the  door  and  ask  Strongheart  to  come  in  as  if  you 
wanted  him  to  help  you  at  something.  I  must  see 
him  as  soon  as  possible.  Take  the  first  chance,  old 
fellow." 

It  was  almost  too  much  for  the  quick-witted  Nel- 
son to  grasp  at  once.  He  stood  for  a  moment,  star- 
ing at  his  chum,  then  nodded  comprehendingly,  set 
his  camera  down,  wheeled  about  and  looked  toward 
the  council.  Strongheart  had  finished  his  transla- 
tion. He  held  the  documents  toward  his  father, 
speaking  earnestly  meantime. 

"Ye  gods !"  whispered  Livingston,  "he  mustn't  be 
allowed  to  sign  that  now!" 

As  Kiwetin  took  the  papers,  Nelson  stepped  to 
the  door.  "Strongheart,"  said  he,  "can  you  lend  me 
a  hand  a  minute?" 

Strongheart  arose  and   came   into  the   wigwam. 

"The  Chief  mustn't  sign  that  paper,  Strongheart," 
said  Livingston.  "Stop  him  if  you  can.  Make  him 
wait  till  tomorrow.  It  won't  do  at  all !" 

93 


STRO  N  GHEART 

"Is  there  something-  wrong  with  it?"  Strongheart 
asked,  with  a  quick  glance  toward  the  door. 

"Yes,  everything's  wrong.  I  must  tell  you  and 
tke  Chief  all  about  it,  but  I  don't  want  those  other 
fellows  to  hear,  or  know  that  I'm  on  to  the  game." 

The  Indian's  brow  darkened.  "I've  just  told  my 
father,"  said  he,  "that  Pierre's  interpretation  was 
correct.  "Oh !"  and  he  clenched  his  fists  and  shud- 
dered, evidently  suppressing  a  passionate  outburst, 
"it  seemed  so  attractive !  Such  an  opportunity  for 
my  people  to  habituate  themselves  to  the  ways  of 
civilization !  To  be  engaged  in  an  industry,  to  hold 
diares  of  stock,  to  comprehend  business  manage- 
ment, to  feel  the  force  of  initiative  in  which  we  are 
so  sadly  lacking !  To  learn  a  useful  lesson  in  all  these 
things  !  What  advancement  might  it  not  lead  to  ?  I 
thought.  And  now,  if  it  must  be  given  up,  especially 
if  it  must  be  abandoned  because  it  is  wrong,  my 
people  will  cling  the  more  stubbornly  to  their  un- 
progressive  ways.  They  will  glory  the  more  in  their 
stagnation.  God  in  Heaven !  what  is  there  for  us  if 
we  cannot  undertake  a  simple  co-operative  scheme 
like  this?" 

Strongheart  spoke  in  tones  hardly  above  a  whis- 
per. The  sharpest  ear  could  not  have  distinguished 
his  words  outside  the  dwelling,  but  the  tumult  of 
tragic  sorrow  within  him  lent  his  utterance  such 
force  that  both  Nelson  and  Livingston  were  deeply 
stirred.  To  them  the  brief  oration  was  as  effective 
as  if  it  had  been  delivered  with  full  voice  and  free 
gesture  in  a  legislative  chamber.  Livingston  was 

94 


STRONGHEART 

not  only  stirred  emotionally,  but  his  judgment  suf- 
fered a  momentary  shock.  Was  it  wise  for  him  to 
intrude  his  ideas  in  this  affair,  which  was  more  than 
a  commercial  transaction  inasmuch  as  it  compre- 
hended the  relations  of  two  races?  His  own  right- 
eous indignation  against  chicanery  seemed  so  puny 
compared  with  the  Indian's  intense  rebellion  against 
the  fate  of  his  people.  And  yet,  so  the  young  man's 
conscience  cried,  no  progress  could  be  made  on  the 
basis  of  injustice ;  no  good  could  come  of  ignoring, 
and  therefore  sustaining  cheat. 

"But,  Strongheart,"  he  whispered  anxiously,  "you 
wouldn't  want  your  people  to  be  defrauded,  would 
you?" 

"No !  a  thousand  times,  no !" 

"And  if  it  could  be  shown  that  it  isn't  the  co-op- 
erative scheme  that  is  at  fault,  but  the  men  behind 
it?  that  the  principle  is  all  right,  and  that  it  needs 
only  honest  men  to  work  it  out?" 

"Will  you  lay  down  a  principle  by  which  we  may 
measure  the  integrity  of  men?"  asked  Strongheart, 
bitterly. 

"I  can't,"  replied  Livingston,  with  profound  humil- 
iation as  he  recognized  the  subtle  indictment  against 
his  own  race. 

"Well,"  said  Strongheart,  with  another  glance 
toward  the  door,  "you  have  aroused  my  suspicions 
of  Marsh's  proposition  with  a  mere  breath.  You 
see  how  quickly  we  distrust.  Is  there  some- 
thing hidden  in  those  documents  that  I  couldn't 
see?" 

95 


STRONGHEART 

"A  great  deal,  I  fear.  Is  there  any  danger  that 
the  Chief  will  sign  tonight?" 

"It  wouldn't  be  like  him,  but  I'll  watch.  Thank 
you,  Livingston.  I'll  tell  my  father  you  want  to  see 
him." 

"Yes,  do !    As  soon  as  he  can  get  rid  of  the  crowd." 

Strongheart  reflected  a  moment.  "Come  out  with 
me,  Nelson,"  he  said  presently,  "and  sit  down  as  if 
you  were  interested  in  what  is  going  on.  Do  you 
know  where  Winterton  is?" 

"I  left  him  hauling  in  the  canoe." 

"All  right.  After  you've  sat  a  few  minutes,  go  and 
get  him  and  bring  him  here.  You'd  like  him  here, 
wouldn't  you,  Livingston?" 

"Oh,  decidedly!" 

Outside  they  heard  Marsh's  voice.  "You  see,  it's  all 
on  the  square,  Chief.  It's  a  give-and-take  deal,  the 
best  chance  ever  given  the  Indians  to  make  money,  a 
whole  lot  of  it,  without  risk.  We  take  all  the  risk, 
you  see,  and  as  we  put  up  a  lot  of  money  to  carry  on 
the  work  clean  through  a  Winter  before  any  money 
can  come  back,  why,  'cording  to  our  way  o'  thinking, 
we'd  ought  to  have  the  biggest  share  of  the  profit. 
That's  fair,  ain't  it?" 

"Yes,  yes,  it  seems  fair,"  said  Kiwetin. 

Nelson  and  Strongheart  sat  on  the  ground  behind 
him.  Pierre  burst  into  long  speech,  the  tones  of  his 
voice  proclaiming  that  he  was  making  a  plea. 

"Big  talk  today,"  said  Black  Eagle,  when  there 
came  a  pause  in  Pierre's  discourse.  He  addressed 
Marsh,  who  responded  with  vast  good  humor,  "Right 

96 


STRONGHEART 

you  are,  Black  Eagle,  it's  been  a  heap  big  talk.  It  took 
us  a  heap  big  thinking  to  get  up  the  plan,  and  we 
allow  that  you've  got  to  have  all  the  time  you  want  to 
think  over  your  side  of  it.  We  don't  want  to  hurry 
you.  Pierre,  here,  seems  to  think  we're  in  a  dead 
sweat  to  close  the  bargain  and  clear  out,  but  we  ain't. 
This  is  a  good  place  to  stay,  and  if  you  people  like, 
we  can  tramp  together  over  the  land  for  a  few  days, 
and  you  can  see  pretty  much  with  your  own  eyes  what 
we  want.  Tell  'em  all  that,  will  you,  Soangetaha?" 

Pierre  scowled  discontentedly  at  being  thus  super- 
seded, but  he  held  his  peace,  and  Strongheart  put 
Marsh's  speech  into  Ojibway.  The  whites  nodded 
acquiescence,  and,  as  the  council  broke  up  for  the  day, 
professed  themselves  perfectly  satisfied  with  the  prog- 
ress attained,  though  it  is  to  be  doubted  whether  any 
but  Marsh  spoke  the  truth,  and  in  his  case  there  may 
have  been  a  drawing  of  the  long  bow  for  policy's 
sake. 

Nelson  lost  no  time  in  finding  Winterton,  and,  when 
they  entered  the  wigwam,  the  Chief  and  Strongheart 
were  awaiting  them.  Livingston  repeated  the  con- 
versation he  had  overheard.  He  made  no  comment 
upon  it,  but  scanned  the  faces  of  his  listeners  eagerly 
to  learn  its  effect  on  them.  Winterton's  jaw  dropped 
in  speechless  astonishment,  and  he  stared  at  Livingston 
as  if  he  doubted  whether  he  had  heard  correctly. 
Strongheart's  features  were  immovable.  The  venera- 
ble Chief  looked  vacantly  into  space,  and  his  lips  quiv- 
ered with  a  fluttering  sigh.  His  voice  was  husky  when 
he  spoke. 

9? 


STRONGHEAR1 

"I  no  would  think  it  of  Tom  Marsh,"  he  said. 

"Nor  I!"  exclaimed  Winterton,  explosively,  and  he 
struck  his  knee  by  way  of  emphasis;  "and  what's 
more,  I  don't." 

"Then  what  do  you  make  of  what  they  said  ?"  asked 
Livingston. 

"Tom  Marsh  never  done  a  crooked  deal  in  his  life," 
was  Winterton's  stubborn  evasion  of  the  question. 

"That  don't  change  the  facts  in  this  case,  Steve. 
Many  a  man  who's  been  upright  all  his  life,  so  far 
as  anybody  knew,  has  gone  wrong  in  the  end." 

"Tain't  Tom  Marsh's  way." 

"But  how  do  you  account  for  it?  For  instance,  one 
of  them  is  afraid  Pierre  will  tip  the  Indians  off,  and 
the  other  says  Pierre  won't  because  he's  in  on  the 
deal." 

"Don't  prove  nothing.  Pierre  would  rather  take  a 
chance  of  a  commission  any  day  than  have  reg'lar 
wages." 

"Well,  Steve,"  and  Livingston's  tone  became  ag- 
gressive, "you're  not  going  to  sit  there  and  say  that 
conversation  doesn't  suggest  crooked  work  ?  You  can't 
account  for  it  on  any  honest  basis." 

Winterton's  silence  was  confession  that  he  was 
staggered.  The  Chief  spoke  again. 

"It  is  so,"  said  he.  "There  is  something  wrong. 
I  wish  we  knew  more  about  it." 

"That's  just  what  I  want,  too,"  said  Livingston.  "If 
Steve  wasn't  so  stubborn  in  defending  Marsh  I  think 
we  might  do  something  to  convict  the  rascals." 

"Mr.  Livingston,"  said  Winterton,  gravely,  "if  it's 
98 


STRONGHEART 

a  question  of  provin'  anything,  you  can  count  on  me 
to  do  whatever  you  want.  I  'low  the  thing  does  look 
bad,  but  it's  hard  fer  me  to  go  back  on  my  'pinion  o'  a 
feller  like  Tom  Marsh.  'F  you've  got  any  way  to 
prove  things,  I'm  with  ye,  fer  I've  got  to  b'lieve  'twill 
show  that  Tom  Marsh  is  square,  V  'f  that  happens, 
the  Indians  can  go  on  with  the  deal." 

"That's  the  talk !  Investigation  won't  hurt  the  inno- 
cent. Now,  listen,  Steve.  I  haven't  had  anything  to 
do  but  think  of  this,  you  know,  and  after  I  got  my 
suspicions  aroused,  I  began  to  consider  the  crooked 
possibilities  in  the  joint-stock  scheme.  I'm  not  a  busi- 
ness man,  but  I've  read  the  newspapers  for  some  years, 
and  I  remember  cases  where  the  majority  holders  of 
a  stock  company  have  reorganized  the  concern  and 
frozen  out  the  minority,  which  in  this  case  would  be 
the  Indians.  That's  what  these  grafters  will  do,  you 
mark  my  word,  if  we  give  them  the  chance.  They 
offer  the  Indians  a  one-third  interest,  and  you'll  find, 
if  the  Chief  sticks  for  it,  that  they'll  concede  a  bigger 
share.  They  start  at  one-third  so  that  they  can  grace- 
fully come  up,  as  a  pretence  to  satisfying  the  Indians. 
They'll  willingly  give  the  Indians  forty-nine  shares  in 
the  hundred,  for,  with  their  fifty-one  they  can  re- 
organize any  time,  sell  out  to  another  company,  you 
know,  in  which  they  hold  all  the  stock.  There  are 
any  number  of  ways  by  which  they  can  hog  the  whole 
thing  and  let  the  Indians  whistle  for  their  profits." 

"How  be  ye  goin'  to  prove  all  that?"  demanded 
Winterton,  sharply. 

"I  can't,  unless  the  Indians  sign  the  contract  and 
99 


STRONGHEART 

the  company  gets  to  work,  and  I  admit  I  may  be 
wrong,  but  if  we  can  prove  that  Marsh's  crowd  is 
crooked  in  one  particular,  won't  it  go  far  to  proving 
that  they  mean  to  be  crooked  in  the  rest  of  it?" 

"Falsus  in  uno,  in  omnibus  falsus,"  said  Nelson. 

"What's  that  ?"  asked  Kiwetin,  quickly. 

Strongheart  translated  for  him. 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Kiwetin,  "that  is  the  Ojibway  way. 
If  Tom  Marsh  crooked  one  way,  he  crooked  in  others. 
What  can  you  prove,  Livingston?" 

Livingston  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief.  "I  wasn't  sure 
you'd  all  see  it  that  way,"  said  he.  "Now  I  can  get 
down  to  business.  This  latitude  and  longitude — how 
have  they  managed  it?  Reckonings  by  latitude  and 
longitude  are  made  by  means  of  a  sextant.  Have  they 
brought  one  a  thousand  miles  into  the  interior  from 
the  seaboard  just  to  work  this  scheme?  You've  seen 
the  papers,  Strongheart.  Do  they  give  the  boundaries 
in  terms  of  latitude  and  longitude  ?" 

"Yes.  The  northern  boundary,  for  example,  is  so 
many  degrees,  minutes,  and  seconds  latitude,  from  a 
point  so  many  degrees,  minutes,  and  seconds  longitude, 
to  another  point  in  longitude;  and  the  other  lines  are 
stated  in  a  similar  way." 

"Then  if  we  can  get  hold  of  a  sextant,  and  an  ancient 
mariner  to  play  on  the  thing,  we  can  verify  their  reck- 
onings. That  will  take  time  if  we  have  to  send  to 
New  York,  or  Montreal,  for  the  thing." 

"It  will  cost  much  money,"  said  the  Qiief. 

"As  to  that,"  Livingston  responded,  "if  you  don't 
mind,  I  should  enjoy  paying  the  cost.  This  accident 

100 


STRONGHEART 

of  mine  has  knocked  my  plans  sky-high,  and  I'll  get 
just  as  much  fun  in  back-capping  these  swindlers  as 
I  would  have  got  from  traveling.  The  point  is,  can 
the  gang  be  kept  here  while  we  are  sending  for  the 
instrument?" 

"They  go  when  they  like,"  the  Chief  answered,  "but  if 
they  wait  till  I  sign,  they  stay  here  as  long  as  you  need." 

"The'  won't  be  no  need  to  send  to  New  York,"  said 
Winterton. 

"How's  that,  Steve?" 

"Why,  the's  plenty  o'  cap'ns  on  the  lakes  who've 
got  sextons.  They're  not  all  freshwater  sailors,  you 
know.  I  know  one  who's  sailed  a  ship  as  fur  as  Chiny. 
He's  got  his  instruments  he  used  when  he  was  on  the 
ocean.  An'  the's  others.  I  know  two  or  three  right 
at  the  Soo— " 

"Could  you  get  one  of  them  up  here  with  his  sex- 
tant?" 

"Reckon  'twouldn't  be  very  hard  'f  he's  to  home." 

"You  must  try  for  it.    How  long  will  it  take?" 

"Wai,  Dossegay  'n'  me  could  git  there  V  back  in 
five  days  'f  we  was  pushed.  Allowin'  we  have  to 
hunt  f  er  the  man  some,  I  reckon  we  could  be  back  here 
in  six." 

"Chief,  can  you  hang  on  to  these  men  as  long  as 
that?  You  see,  I  want  to  convict  'em  right  to  their 
faces.  Give  'em  a  surprise  party,  you  know." 

"I  think  we  make  them  stay  a  week,"  replied  Kiwe- 
tin.  "We  take  a  journey  with  them,  as  Marsh  said, 
and  look  at  land  with  our  own  eyes,  though  we  know 
it  well  enough.  That  take  some  time,  and  I  can  say 

101 


STRONGHEART 

we  like  plan.  I  don't  believe  they  go  if  they  think 
there's  chance  we  sign." 

"You've  got  to  make  'em  stay,"  said  Winterton,  "or 
I  won't  go  to  the  Soo  for  the  sailor  and  his  sexton. 
Tom  Marsh  is  all  right,  'n'  I  won't  have  him  cut  outen 
this  deal  by  suspicion  while  I'm  gone." 

"We  understand,"  said  the  Chief.  "Nothing  is 
proved.  Until  it  is,  we  friendly  to  Marsh  and  his 
friends." 

"I'm  satisfied,"  and  Winterton  pocketed  his  pipe  by 
way  of  clinching  his  decision. 

"All  right,"  said  Livingston.  "Get  a  move  on  for 
the  Soo,  Steve,  as  soon  as  you  can,  and  let  it  be  under- 
stood that  you're  going  to  get  something  for  the  sick 
man.  That'll  throw  them  off  their  guard.  There's 
only  one  thing  I  don't  just  see  yet.  How  are  we  to 
verify  their  lines  without  letting  them  know  what 
we're  up  to  ?" 

There  was  silence  in  the  wigwam  until  Strongheart 
and  his  father  exchanged  brief  words.  Strongheart 
said,  "Neen  gigitoian  nuhf"  and  the  Chief  answered, 
"Gayget,  gigitokan."  If  Livingston  had  understood 
the  words,  he  would  have  had  further  light  on  the 
conflict  to  which  Strongheart  was  subject,  would  have 
apprehended,  perhaps,  one  of  the  obstacles  that  lie 
between  the  Indian  and  civilization;  for  Strongheart. 
the  educated  man  of  twenty-four,  said  to  his  father, 
"May  I  speak?"  and  the  father  replied,  "Yes,  speak." 

"That  will  be  easy,"  said  Strongheart.  "Marsh  and 
his  friends  will  not  hesitate  to  let  me  examine  the 
papers.  I  have  had  them  this  afternoon,  you  know. 

102 


STRON  GHEART 

If  I  should  ask  for  them  again,  they'll  surely  give 
them  to  me,  for,  if  they  refused,  every  man  in  the  tribe 
would  be  suspicious  of  them.  I'll  copy  the  descriptions 
of  the  boundaries,  with  all  the  figures — " 

"That  settles  it !"  cried  Livingston.  "Bring  on  your 
ancient  mariner,  Steve,  and  a  surveyor,  too,  and  get 
a  government  map  of  this  region,  if  there  is  one.  If  we 
don't  find  that  there's  a  nigger  in  the  woodpile,  I'll  get 
on  my  knees  in  apology  to  Marsh  and  his  whole  crew. 
The  only  thing  left  is  to  keep  quiet.  I  want  the  fun  of 
seeing  those  fellows  when  the  exposure  is  made." 

"I'll  bet  my  rifle  against  an  old  moccasin  that  Tom 
Marsh  comes  out  all  right,"  grumbled  Winterton,  "but 
I'll  get  Dossegay,  and  we'll  hike  for  the  Soo  without 
waitin'  for  supper." 

"Oh,  Steve,"  said  Livingston,  suddenly,  "look  in 
again  before  you  go.  I've  got  a  letter  I  want  you  to 
mail  for  me." 

"Did  you  write  to  Dorothy,  Dick?"  asked  Nelson. 

"Certainly.    You  asked  me  to,  didn't  you?" 

"Well,  you  spoke  of  having  a  letter,  as  if  you'd  writ- 
ten only  one — " 

"Frank,  your  niceties  of  language  belong  in  the 
classroom.  They're  out  of  place  in  the  wilderness." 

"All  right,  Dick.  Have  your  own  way,  but  I'll  bet 
the  O  jib  ways  have  a  plural  form  for  their  nouns,  and 
that  they  use  it  when  they  mean  it.  How's  that, 
Strongheart  ?" 

"We  have  plural  forms,"  replied  the  Indian,  and  the 
conversation  turned  upon  the  structure  of  the  O  jib  way 
language. 

103 


CHAPTER  VIII 

CHIEF    KIWETIN,    THE   DEBATER 

Winterton  and  Dossegay  were  off  long  before  dark, 
and  Marsh  himself  bade  them  farewell  at  the  shore. 

"We  been  so  took  up  with  our  business,"  said  Marsh, 
"which  falls  mostly  on  me,  as  the  other  men  don't 
know  nothing  'bout  Indians,  that  I'd  clean  overlooked 
your  having  a  sick  man  here.  I'll  keep  an  eye  on  him, 
Steve,  while  you're  gone." 

"Reckon  he  won't  need  much  lookin'  after,"  was 
Winterton's  embarrassed  reply,  "but  you  might  look 
in  on  him  'n'  git  acquainted." 

Marsh  did  so  that  very  evening,  and  his  unaffected 
good  humor  impressed  Livingston  deeply.  Indeed,  the 
man  seemed  another  Steve  Winterton,  only  more  alert, 
quicker  in  his  movements,  more  flexible  mentally,  so  to 
speak. 

"I  don't  wonder  Steve  feels  sore,"  thought  Living- 
ston, with  a  pang  of  regret,  "but  it's  a  crooked  deal, 
and  Marsh  is  in  it.  He's  got  to  be  exposed  with  the 
rest." 

The  next  day  was  memorable  for  Livingston  on 
two  accounts:  an  excursion  on  the  lake,  and  a  talk 
with  Chief  Kiwetin.  The  village  was  almost  deserted 
in  the  forenoon.  A  party  of  Ojibways,  headed  by 

104 


STRONGHEART 

Black  Eagle,  accompanied  Marsh  and  his  friends  on 
an  exploring  expedition  that  was  planned  to  cover  at 
least  four  days.  Yielding  to  his  chum's  urgent  appeal, 
Nelson  joined  this  party.  Nearly  all  the  rest  of  the 
population  went,  some  to  the  hillsides,  some  to  the 
islands  in  the  lake,  for  blueberries,  which  were  then 
in  season  and  in  marvelous  abundance.  Strongheart 
and  Mukwa  had  put  a  large  canoe  in  thorough  order, 
and  arranged  a  couch  with  blankets  amidships  for  the 
invalid,  so  that  he  could  recline  in  a  comfortable  atti- 
tude and  even  handle  a  trolling  line  without  danger  of 
again  straining  his  ankles,  which  were  yet  far  from 
well.  Mukwa  laid  aside  his  pipe  long  enough  to  help 
carry  Livingston  to  the  craft,  and  then,  smoking  in- 
cessantly, wielded  the  forward  paddle  untiringly  for 
hours,  while  Strongheart,  in  the  stern,  guided  the 
canoe  in  and  out  of  charming  bays,  and  around  the 
beautiful  islets  with  which  the  lake  was  dotted.  Now 
and  again  he  advised  Livingston  to  drop  his  line  over, 
and  the  passenger  was  speedily  rewarded  with  the 
thrill  of  a  tugging  pike.  The  Indian  seldom  failed  to 
know  just  where  the  fish  lurked,  and  when  one  was 
brought  aboard,  he  would  say,  "There  are  generally 
two  in  that  hole,"  and  the  canoe  would  be  put  about 
to  gather  in  the  other.  It  was  not  the  finest  fishing 
from  the  strictly  sporting  viewpoint,  for  an  eight- 
pound  pike  surrenders  with  much  less  spirit  than  a 
two-pound  bass,  and,  unless  the  fisherman  be  as  fresh 
as  the  lake  itself,  a  pike  once  attached  to  the  end  of  a 
troll  is  as  good  as  caught ;  but  to  the  active  young  man 
who  had  been  lying  in  the  wigwam  for  nearly  three 

105 


STRONGHEART 

days,  it  seemed  the  most  glorious  sport  he  had  ever 
known;  and  he  returned  at  midday,  hungry,  happy, 
and  with  fish  enough  to  feed  half  the  village. 

Shortly  after  Joe  had  carried  away  the  wreck  of 
his  dinner,  Livingston  saw  the  Chief  passing,  and 
called  to  him.  Kiwetin  stopped,  looked  in  and  said 
pleasantly,  "They  left  you  alone,  eh  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Livingston,  "and  I'm  glad  of  it,  now 
you've  come,  for  I'd  like  to  talk  with  you  a  few  min- 
utes, if  you  can  spare  the  time." 

Kiwetin  immediately  entered  and  sat  down,  looking 
benignantly  receptive,  a  much  more  promising  subject 
than  his  son  had  been  on  the  occasion  when  Livingston 
first  attempted  to  sound  the  depths  of  Indian  character. 

"I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  your  son,  Soangetaha," 
Livingston  began. 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Kiwetin,  encouragingly. 

"He's  a  splendid  fellow.  I  like  him  immensely.  He 
seems  to  me  one  of  the  ablest  men  I  ever  met — you 
know  what  I  mean,  that  he  has  the  capacity  to  do 
things ;  it's  in  him,  don't  you  see,  to  be  a  leader,  a  man 
of  influence  and  power?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Kiwetin. 

"He  saved  my  life  the  other  day,  and  you  must  know 
how  I  feel  about  that,  but  even  if  I  had  no  reason  to 
be  grateful,  I  should  see  in  Strongheart — Soangetaha 
— the  making  of  an  exceptional  man,  and  I  should 
want  to  do  what  I  could  to  push  him  forward." 

"Yes,  yes,"  and  Kiwetin's  grave  eyes  lighted  with 
appreciation— or  patience,  Livingston  could  hardly  say 
which. 

106 


STRONGHEART 

Livingston  also  was  patient.  He  was  tremendously 
nerved  up  for  this  interview.  The  very  fact  that  he 
had  to  lie  still  contributed,  doubtless,  to  his  capacity 
for  concentration  on  the  subject,  and  he  was  proceed- 
ing, according  to  his  best  lights,  in  a  thoroughly 
diplomatic  way,  content  to  make  allowances  for  the 
Indian's  slow  mental  action,  and  to  arrive  at  the  crucial 
point  by  moderate  stages.  Kiwetin's  noncommittal 
affirmations  were  not  exactly  stimulative  to  confidence, 
but  Livingston  was  nothing  if  not  determined. 

"Strongheart  has  been  to  school,"  said  he,  a  state- 
ment so  elementary  that  Kiwetin  did  not  feel  it  in- 
cumbent on  him  to  acquiesce  in  it  by  so  much  as  a 
nod.  "He  has  learned  some  things  that  the  Indians 
couldn't  teach  him,  things  that  are  of  no  use  to  him 
here,  but  which  are  not  only  useful  but  necessary  to 
the  life  of  the  whites.  You  won't  be  offended  if  I  use 
the  word  civilization,  will  you?" 

"Word  not  new  to  me,"  Kiwetin  answered.  "As  I 
understand  it,  civilization  is  life  of  white  people.  In- 
dians' life  is  something  else.  Savagery,  your  people 
call  it." 

"I  do  not,  now  that  I've  seen  it,"  Livingston  hastily 
interposed. 

"It  no  matter,"  said  Kiwetin,  tranquilly ;  "there  have 
to  be  words  for  things  in  all  languages.  Savagery, 
civilization;  Indian  life,  white-man  life.  We  under- 
stand each  other.  Well  ?" 

"Well,"  echoed  Livingston,  a  bit  disconcerted,  "two 
different  things,  two  ways  of  living.  Now,  some  men 
are  fitted  for  one,  and  some  for  the  other.  Isn't  it  so  ?" 

107 


STRON  GHEART 

"Indian  fit  for  Indian  way,"  Kiwetin  replied. 

"Yes,  when  he  stays  in  it,  but  when  he  has  gone 
outside  of  it,  and  seen  the  other  way,  and  learned  to 
live  it,  he  can't  be  his  best,  or  do  his  best  in  the  Indian 
way.  He  must  have  all  the  advantages  of  civilization 
to  bring  out  the  best  that  is  in  him.  Civilization  makes 
a  bigger  man  of  the  Indian  who  goes  to  it.  When 
he  comes  back  here,  there  are  many  things  he  could  do 
if  conditions  were  different.  If  you  don't  mind  my 
saying  so,  he  is  like  your  own  wigwam,  too  big  for  its 
purpose." 

"There  are  times  when  my  wigwam  is  full  of 
guests,"  said  Kiwetin,  "but  I  understand.  Only  tell 
me  this :  can  Indian  who  has  gone  to  civilization  make 
any  use  there  of  what  he  learned  in  savagery  ?" 

"I  think  not,"  was  Livingston's  frank  and  perhaps 
too  prompt  reply. 

"Very  well,  then,  these  things  balance.  Two  ways 
of  living.  One  kind  of  men  for  one  way,  another  for 
other.  Indian  who  goes  out  of  Indian  life  to  civiliza- 
tion is  no  longer  an  Indian." 

"I  see  what  you  mean,  and  that  is  really  my  own 
view.  Your  son,  Soangetaha,  now,  has  been,  we'll 
say,  civilized.  He  comes  back  here  and  his  new  pow- 
ers are  wasted." 

"That  his  misfortune,"  said  Kiwetin,  as  tranquilly 
as  before.  "Indian  can  take  nothing  to  white  man, 
white  man  can  bring  nothing  to  Indian." 

"Oh,  I  say,  Chief!  you  must  modify  that.  Why! 
the  white  man  brought  you  the  rifle,  which  you  have 
taken  up  in  place  of  your  bow  and  arrow ;  he  brought 

108 


STRONGHEART 

you  steel  axes,  which  are  better  than  your  stone  toma- 
hawks; he  brought  you  cloths,  and  you  no  longer 
dress  in  skins;  he  has  brought  you  kitchen  utensils, 
and  I  see  your  women  using  them ;  he  has  shown  you 
that  houses  are  better,  the  year  round,  than  wigwams ; 
he  has  brought  you  plows,  and  shown  you  how  to 
make  the  land  feed  you  better;  he  has  brought  you 
many  comforts  which  your  fathers  never  dreamed  of." 

"And  he  brought  us  firewater,"  said  Kiwetin. 

Livingston  felt  the  hot  blood  rush  to  his  face.  "Yes, 
he  did,"  he  confessed,  feeling  his  whole  argument  shat- 
tered by  a  single  blow. 

"It  is  true,"  Kiwetin  went  on,  "that  we  have  given 
up  bow  and  arrow  for  rifle,  and  stone  axe  for  that  of 
steel,  but  are  we  any  better  for  it?  or  happier?  or 
stronger?  I  no  think  so,  Livingston.  Our  fathers 
dressed  in  skins  and  lived  to  greater  age  than  we  do 
today.  Did  we  no  lose  something  when  we  cast  off 
our  fringed  garments,  our  feathered  headgear,  all  those 
decorations  which  seemed  to  make  us  more  fitted  to 
forest?  We  took  step  toward  civilization  when  we 
put  on  cloth  shirts  and  plain  trousers,  but  do  we  do 
our  work  any  better,  or  do  we  feel  better,  or  look  bet- 
ter? But  such  things,  mebbe,  not  important.  Houses 
are.  House  of  white  man  is  not  as  good,  year  round, 
as  wigwam.  I  know,  for  I  have  tried  both,  and  I  see 
more  sickness  in  houses  on  reservation  than  there  used 
to  be  when  I  was  child  and  we  all  lived  in  wigwams 
which  we  set  up  where  it  was  convenient  in  forest. 
With  rifle  a  man  can  kill  more  deer  and  moose  than 
with  bow  and  arrow,  but  we  used  to  kill  all  we  needed 

109 


STRONGHEART 

with  old-time  weapons.  Why  should  one  kill  more 
than  he  needs  ?  We  must  use  rifle  now,  because  white 
man  has  come  into  forest  and  shot  off  game.  He  de- 
spises our  skin  garments,  but  he  pays  Indians  to  kill 
animals  so  that  his  own  women  may  dress  in  skins. 
We  have  to  use  white  man's  tools,  because  he  has  made 
life  harder  for  us.  He  hasn't  made  it  any  better.  Do 
you  hear  those  sounds  ?" 

The  aged  Chief  interrupted  his  argument  abruptly, 
and  Livingston  heard  the  chatter  and  laughter  of 
children  at  play  by  the  shore. 

"Tell  me,"  Kiwetin  resumed,  "when  children  of  civ- 
ilization play,  are  their  voices  any  fresher  than  those? 
Is  their  laughter  any  pleasanter?  Are  they  happier, 
or  better  ?  I  been  in  some  of  your  cities,  and  I  no  like 
them.  You  come  to  forest  for  your  pleasure;  I  no 
go  to  your  cities  for  it,  for  they  make  me  sad.  Sup- 
pose you  had  power  over  these  children:  would  you 
take  them  from  this  playground  to  the  streets  of  your 
cities?" 

"No,"  answered  Livingston,  with  something  like  a 
groan,  as  the  Chief  paused,  "let  them  stay  Indian,  if 
you  will,  but  let  us  get  back,  you  and  me,  to  the 
ground  we  stood  on  a  few  minutes  ago.  We  are 
considering  the  case  of  a  man  who  has  been  to  civiliza- 
tion and  learned  its  ways.  Where  can  he  be  most  use- 
ful? Not  here,  Chief.  Here,  what  he  learned  there 
will  be  in  his  way  and  make  him  unhappy.  For  the 
sake  of  the  man  who  has  learned  something  of  the 
other  life,  he  should  be  allowed  to  go  back  to  it.  Then 
only  can  he  become  all  that  Nature  meant  him  to  be. 

110 


STRONGHEART 

Here  his  newly  acquired  powers  are  stunted.  Don't 
you  see?" 

"You  speak  of  my  son,  Livingston.  Let  us  be  plain. 
No  Indian  should  want  to  leave  his  own  life.  Here  are 
his  people,  here  he  was  born.  These  are  conditions 
best  fit  for  him.  Here  he  should  become  the  best  that 
Nature  meant  him  to  be.  I  no  have  liking  for  Indian 
who  would  desert  his  people.  They  need  him.  I  mean 
my  son,  Soangetaha.  You  have  said  that  he  is  able. 
I  believe  it.  He  is  fitted  to  lead.  You  speak  truth. 
One  day  I  shall  go  to  my  fathers;  then  Soangetaha 
must  lead  in  my  place.  His  people  need  him,  they  have 
a  right  to  his  services." 

"Chief,"  said  Livingston,  "you  have  the  best  of  me 
in  most  of  the  argument;  that  is,  I  can't  answer  you, 
though  I  feel  that  if  I  were  as  old  as  you  I  could  do  so. 
But  I'm  not  beaten  on  the  main  issue.  You  have  said 
you  use  the  rifle,  and  the  white  man's  tools,  and  so 
forth,  because  you  have  to,  the  white  man  having  made 
your  life  harder.  Now  see  what  that  leads  you  to.  You 
have  only  begun,  you  Indians,  to  feel  the  influence  of 
the  white  man's  advance.  Year  after  year  his  ways 
will  creep  on  you,  and  your  life,  your  own  Indian  life, 
will  become  harder  and  harder.  Let  us  admit  that  you 
won't  be  any  the  better  for  it;  let  us  admit  that  the 
old,  simple,  Indian  way  was  better;  let  us  admit  all 
the  evils  the  white  man  brings,  firewater  and  the  rest. 
The  point  is  that  they  are  here,  and  more  are  coming, 
and  you  can't  stop  them.  Call  it  unfortunate,  pitiable, 
tragic,  if  you  will,  and  I'll  say  amen!  but  the  facts 
can't  be  dodged,  and  you've  got  to  face  these  facts  and 

111 


adjust  yourselves  to  them.  How  does  this  apply  to 
Soangetaha?  He's  had  half  an  education.  Give  him 
more !  Complete  his  civilization,  so  that  he  can  return 
and  be  a  really  useful  leader  of  his  people.  He  can 
bring  back  ideas  of  progress  and  the  ways  to  attain  it. 
Send  him  back  to  school  so  that  he  can  learn  enough 
to  bring  the  school  to  you.  For  you've  got  to  have  it. 
Those  children  playing  out  there  can't  live  the  old  In- 
dian life !  They've  got  to  lead  the  life  which  pioneers 
like  Tom  Marsh  are  bringing  in  here.  Only  a  man 
who  understands  that  life  can  teach  them  how  to  live 
it.  Soangetaha  has  had  too  much  education  for  the 
old,  vanishing  Indian  life,  not  enough  for  the  new 
life  that  the  Indians  must  learn  to  lead  if  they  are  to 
live  at  all.  You  must  admit  that  the  whites  are  con- 
quering the  country.  You  see  it,  you've  almost  said 
so.  They  will  sweep  all  over  it  in  time,  and  the  In- 
dians must  adjust  themselves  to  the  new,  harder,  uglier 
conditions.  It's  no  discredit  to  you,  you  understand, 
but  the  fact  is  the  whites  have  got  advantages  that 
make  them  stronger  than  the  Indians.  You  must  meet 
them  in  their  way,  Chief,  or  give  way  before  them." 

Livingston  wound  up  his  speech  with  an  exclama- 
tion of  pain;  for,  his  earnestness  mounting  to  excite- 
ment, he  had  wriggled  to  a  sitting  posture,  leaning 
on  one  arm  and  gesturing  freely  with  the  other ;  and, 
just  as  he  came  to  his  climax,  forgetful  of  his  condi- 
tion, he  moved  his  lower  limbs  with  such  violence  that 
the  sprained  ankles  twinged  in  excruciating  agony. 
His  cheeks  paled,  and  he  all  but  fell  from  the  low  bed. 
Kiwetin  fairly  leaped  across  the  wigwam,  lifted  the 

112 


STRONGHEART 

young  man  and  gently  laid  him  back  where  he  be- 
longed. 

"Thanks,  Chief,"  he  said,  mentally  cursing  himself 
for  forgetting  and  so  nullifying,  as  he  feared,  the  force 
of  his  argument.  "It's  all  right  now.  When  a  fellow 
thinks  his  feet  are  dropping  off  he  has  to  holler,  you 
know.  I  suppose  an  Indian  wouldn't  have  yipped." 

"Indian  shuts  his  mouth  to  pain  when  it  is  inflicted 
by  enemy,"  Kiwetin  responded.  "I've  heard  Indians 
groan  when  their  stomachs  ached.  Sure  it's  all  right 
now  ?" 

"Oh,  yes.    Don't  mind  me.     I'll  lie  still  hereafter." 

Kiwetin  stood  for  a  moment  looking  silently  down 
at  his  guest.  Then,  "Livingston,"  said  he,  "I  like  you. 
You  talk  well.  I  believe  your  heart  is  honest.  But 
you  are  young.  You  have  pride  of  your  race,  and 
that  is  right.  It  would  not  be  right  if  you  did  not 
think  white  men  best  of  all  people;  but  we,  we  red 
men,  we  have  our  pride  of  race,  and  we  no  admit  that 
white  man  is  better,  or  stronger,  than  we  are.  There 
are  more  of  them,  it  is  true,  and  they  crowd  us,  but 
we  should  be  weak  indeed,  we  should  be  unworthy  of 
our  fathers  if  we  let  them  take  from  us  all  what  makes 
our  life  wholesome  and  natural.  As  long  as  we  no 
can  admit  that  civilization  is  better  than  savagery,  as 
long  as  we  deny  that  civilization  make  people  better, 
or  happier,  we  would  wrong  our  race  if  we  no  resisted 
civilization  in  every  possible  way.  War  is  no  longer 
possible.  The  whites  have  a  better  understanding  of 
war  than  we  have,  and  they  are  more  relentless.  We 
must  resist  whites,  and  their  civilization,  in  other  ways. 

113 


STRONGHEART 

I  used  to  be  much  in  doubt,  for  I  was  anxious  for  my 
people,  and  I  had  some  thoughts  same  like  you  have 
spoken.  I  was  persuaded  to  let  Soangetaha  go  to 
school.  Result  been  bitter  disappointment,  and  now 
he  and  tribe  must  make  best  of  it.  But  I  like  you, 
Livingston,  and  I  have  liked  to  hear  you  talk.  We 
are  friends,  I  think?"  and  the  venerable  Chief  held 
out  his  hand. 

"I  am  proud  to  think  you  are  my  friend,"  said  Liv- 
ingston, solemnly,  for  he  was  deeply  impressed. 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Kiwetin,  "good-bye,"  and  with  a 
cordial  grip  of  the  young  man's  hand,  he  took  his 
departure. 


114 


CHAPTER  IX 
STRONGHEART'S  ULTIMATUM 

"Well,  Strongheart,  the  Chief  and  I  have  been  dis- 
cussing the  education  problem,"  said  Livingston. 

A  flash  of  interest  crossed  the  Indian's  face  and  left 
it  impassive.  "You  did  not  agree,"  he  said. 

"No,  and  yes.  As  I  look  back  on  the  argument,  we 
started  pretty  far  apart,  and  when  we  stopped  we  were 
pretty  much  on  the  same  ground,  and  that  ground  was 
his.  Why!  Strongheart,  old  chap,  your  father  is  a 
perfect  giant  at  debate !" 

"Could  he  be  a  good  chief  if  he  were  not?" 

"I  suppose  not.  By  jimminy!  he  deserves  his  title. 
He's  a  man  of  influence,  all  right,  all  right." 

"Then  he  convinced  you  that  I  shouldn't  go  to  the 
East  for  further  education." 

"Not  by  a  long  shot,  he  didn't !  He  had  me  twisted 
and  standing  on  my  head  as  far  as  the  problem  con- 
cerned Indians  generally,  but  he  didn't  convince  me 
that  you  don't  belong  in  civilization." 

"And  you  didn't  convince  him." 

"I'm  afraid  not." 

"I  knew  it  would  be  so." 

"I  remember  you  said  so,  Strongheart,  but  I  had  to 
have  my  try.  Now  there's  only  one  thing  left." 

115 


STRONGHEART 

Strongheart  looked  his  inquiry. 

"Beat  it,"  said  Livingston.  "I  suppose  I've  no  busi- 
ness to  suggest,  or  advise  such  a  thing,  but  I  can't 
help  it.  I  can't  think  of  you  stagnating  here.  Your 
life  is  your  own,  old  chap.  Take  it  into  your  own 
hands."' 

The  Indian  gazed  gloomily  at  his  adviser. 

"I  ought  not  to  say  anything  more  about  it,"  said 
Livingston,  hastily,  "but  who's  to  stop  you,  if  you 
decide  to  clear  out  and  be  independent?" 

"Who's  to  stop  me?"  Strongheart  echoed,  as  if  sur- 
prised at  the  question. 

"It's  what  a  white  man  would  do  under  similar  cir- 
cumstances." 

"Yes !  a  white  man  would !"  exclaimed  Strongheart, 
with  profound  bitterness.  "That's  the  difference.  You 
have  been  making  a  quick  acquaintance  with  Indians, 
Livingston.  Haven't  you  discovered  why  the  Indian 
doesn't — cannot  take  that  course?" 

Livingston  hesitated.  "I  think,"  he  ventured,  "you 
suggested  it  in  one  of  your  own  remarks  yesterday, 
when  you  mentioned  the  Indians'  lack  of  initiative." 

"That's  it.  God !  how  can  you  expect  anything  .dif- 
ferent of  us?  Here  am  I,  a  product  of  centuries  of 
stagnation.  Was  there  any  evidence  of  progress 
among  the  Indians  when  your  people  first  came  to 
America?  Were  we  not  living  then  as  we  had  lived 
for  unknown  ages?  Were  we  not  then  ruled  by  the 
traditions  of  a  hazy  past?  Was  it  not  clear  that  our 
highest  aim  in  life  was  to  do  as  our  fathers  had  done  ? 
Can  you  expect  a  man  who  is  bowed  down  by  such  an 

116 


STRONGHEART 

inheritance  to  become  suddenly  independent?  He  can 
learn  what  is  in  your  books,  he  can  soon  appreciate 
the  beauties  of  refinement,  enjoy  the  broader  outlook ; 
he  can  become  a  better  observer  than  he  was  before; 
he  can,  and  does,  as  I  firmly  believe,  become  a  better 
man ;  but  can  he  become  a  different  man  ?  Don't  you 
see  that  deep  in  his  nature  the  Indian  persists?  and 
that  the  descendant  of  those  who  did  nothing,  took  no 
thought  toward  improving  their  condition,  who  could 
not  even  invent  an  alphabet,  cannot  revolutionize  his 
nature  by  the  mere  process  of  adding  to  his  knowl- 
edge?" 

Strongheart  spoke  as  if  the  iron  were  in  his  soul, 
his  vibrant  tones  conveying  conviction  deeper  than  did 
his  words.  He  checked  himself  abruptly.  "Excuse 
me,  Livingston,"  he  resumed,  "let  us  not  talk  of  it.  I 
am  grateful  for  your  interest  and  effort,  but  it  does 
no  good.  It  only  makes  me  unhappier." 

Livingston  held  out  his  hand.  "I  won't  say  another 
word,  old  chap,"  he  said,  "but  I  do  think  you  inveigh 
too  severely  against  your  race." 

"I  do!  I  do!  My  personal  problem  blinds  me.  I 
glory  in  my  race.  That  seems  inconsistent,  doesn't  it? 
Let  it  be  so.  I  actually  feel  proud  that  my  people  cling 
so  loyally  to  their  ancient  ways  according  to  which 
they  reared  generations  in  contentment  if  not  in  what 
the  whites  call  prosperity.  And  I  believe  that  my 
people  have  it  in  them  to  readjust  themselves  to  meet 
changing  conditions,  and  perhaps  strike  that  always 
desirable  happy  medium,  which,  in  this  case,  would 
be  the  progressive  life  of  the  whites  without  its  excess 

117 


STRONGHEART 

of  artificiality — to  attain  their  refinements,  comforts, 
learning,  without  their  greed,  their  incessant  haste, 
their  ostentation." 

"What  a  dream  that  is !"  cried  Livingston. 

"You  speak  truly.  A  dream !  I  have  awakened 
from  it  already.  Once  more,  Livingston,  thank  you, 
but  let  us  call  the  subject  closed." 

Black  Eagle  returned  to  the  village  next  day  with 
some  of  the  men  who  had  accompanied  him  on  Marsh's 
trip  of  exploration. 

"It  is  a  journey  for  nothing,"  he  said  to  Kiwetin. 
"We  climbed  Mujjemanitogidaki  (the  hill  of  the  evil 
spirit)  and  looked  over  all  the  land  that  can  be  seen 
from  there.  You  know  it  well.  They  told  us  how 
the  lines  would  include  only  the  region  bearing  the 
white  pine.  That  was  what  they  told  us  here.  Then 
they  wanted  to  fish,  and  I  left  them  at  it." 

To  Livingston,  Black  Eagle  reported  that  his  friend, 
Nelson,  was  enjoying  himself  and  getting  many  good 
pictures. 

"It  is  well,"  Kiwetin  said,  when  Black  Eagle  had 
gone  from  the  wigwam.  "They  will  spend  three  or 
four  days  fishing  before  they  know  it,  and  when  they 
return  I  will  easily  keep  them  here  until  Winterton 
gets  back  from  Soo." 

Joe,  who  still  acted  as  cook  and  special  servant  for 
Livingston,  piled  up  skins  and  blankets  outside  the 
wigwam  and  moved  his  employer  there  that  he  might 
have  more  to  engage  his  attention  as  the  hours  dragged 
by.  There  Livingston  wrote  again  to  Dorothy,  telling 
her  much  about  Strongheart  and  his  hard  problem, 

118 
'. 


STRONGHEART 

giving  a  summary  of  his  debate  with  the  Chief,  and 
confessing  that,  though  the  case  seemed  hopeless,  he 
could  not  give  up  the  fanciful  design  of  having  Strong- 
heart  complete  his  education  at  Columbia. 

"You  would  like  the  little  beggars  who  keep  the 
village  alive  with  their  yells  all  day  and  far  into  the 
night,"  he  wrote.  "When  these  Indian  kids  sleep  is 
more  than  I  know.  I  hear  them  laughing  and  sky- 
larking when  I  am  dozing  off  after  dark,  which  comes 
late  here,  and  their  voices  are  generally  the  first  thing 
I  hear  in  the  morning.  For  straight,  undiluted  happi- 
ness, give  me  the  Ojibway  boy.  A  couple  of  them 
had  a  bit  of  a  scrap  this  forenoon,  just  enough  to  show 
that  they're  human,  you  know;  they  were  playing 
hunting,  so  far  as  I  could  make  out,  and  one  tired  of 
being  the  bear.  When  the  hunter  had  whacked  him 
over  the  back  with  a  stick  about  a  dozen  times,  the 
bear  rebelled;  at  least,  that  was  my  interpretation — 
Strongheart  wasn't  here  to  enlighten  me — and  the 
hunter  liked  his  stunt  too  well  to  change  places.  So 
the  bear  got  up  and  cuffed  the  hunter  good  and  hard, 
and  the  hunter  bellowed  quite  as  lustily  as  a  white  kid 
would  have  done  under  the  circumstances,  and  then 
got  back  at  the  bear  with  his  fists.  Their  mother,  or 
at  any  rate  a  woman  who  had  authority,  butted  in  and 
separated  them  with  a  rapid-fire  scolding,  apparently, 
and  after  a  minute  or  two  of  sulks  on  each  side,  they 
began  to  pitch  stones  at  a  stake  driven  into  the 
ground — something  like  our  quoits,  quite  as  harmoni- 
ous as  if  nothing  had  clouded  their  serenity. 

"This  was  the  only  quarrel  I  have  seen  among  the 
119 


STRONGHEART 

kids.  Most  of  the  time  they  are  shrieking  with  laugh- 
ter. They  found  me  such  a  great  curiosity  at  first  that 
all  play  stopped.  They  would  jam  at  the  wigwam 
door  and  look  in,  motionless,  silent,  for  minutes  at  a 
time,  sizing  me  up,  I  suppose,  and  making  up  their 
infantile  red  minds  whether  I  was  worthy  of  recogni- 
tion. Evidently  they  decided  that  I  was,  for  now  most 
of  them  speak  to  me  cheerfully  several  times  a  day. 
What  little  English  they  know  they  practice  on  me. 
It  is  inconceivably  comical  and  just  a  little  startling  to 
see  a  chubby,  red  six-year-old,  his  face  plastered  with 
evidence  of  his  most  recent  occupation,  his  cut-down 
trousers  incommoding  him  as  much  as  if  he  wore 
skirts,  his  mouth  on  the  broad  grin — to  see  such  a 
rudimentary  savage  concentrate  his  hospitable  stare 
upon  you  and  hear  him  say  with  the  utmost  cordiality, 
'Hullo,  Livingston!'  There's  no  undue  familiarity  in 
that,  you  must  understand.  These  Ojibways  have  no 
word  for  'mister/  or  anything  corresponding  to  it  ex- 
cept ogema,  chief,  which,  naturally,  they  won't  use  in 
addressing  me — though  there  was  one  occasion  when 
I  was  alluded  to  as  ogema,  which  I  will  tell  you  about 
when  I  return — and  so,  when  a  kid  says  'Hullo,  Liv- 
ingston,' he  is  as  respectful  as  his  language  and  the 
customs  of  his  race  permit.  Oh,  I  tell  you,  these 
people  are  great!  and  Strongheart  is  the  mightiest 
man  among  them,  unless  I  except  his  father,  the  Chief, 
who  is  a  wonder. 

"There's  another  thing  about  them  that  will  inter- 
est you.  Most  of  us,  I  think,  grow  up  with  the  idea 
that  the  Indians  are  dirty.  So  far  as  the  Ojibways  are 

120 


STRONGHEART 

concerned  this  is  not  the  case.  The  Chief's  big  wig- 
wam, my  present  residence,  is  neat  and  orderly  to  the 
last  degree.  His  housekeeper,  so  to  speak,  is  Gezhik- 
way,  his  daughter  and  a  widow,  who  comes  every 
morning  to  'redd-up'  the  place.  The  Chief  and 
Strongheart  take  their  meals  at  her  wigwam.  Frank, 
who  has  had  more  opportunity  than  I  to  see  the 
domestic  life  of  these  people,  says  all  their  dwellings 
are  well  cared  for,  and  that  the  greatest  care  is  used 
in  cooking  to  have  clean  dishes.  The  blankets  are 
hung  out  in  the  air  for  hours  every  dry  day,  and  as  for 
bodily  cleanliness,  I  can  speak  from  my  own  observa- 
tion with  regard  to  the  kids.  Of  course  they  accumu- 
late some  dirt  while  at  play — history  tells  us  that  in 
the  ancient  days  before  we  were  civilized,  white  chil- 
dren did  much  the  same — but  the  squaws  seem  to  be 
forever  on  the  watch  to  wash  the  dirt  off.  As  I  write, 
a  certain  strenuous  youngster  is  standing  half  up  to 
his  knees  in  the  lake,  bending  over,  while  his  mother 
is  scrubbing  his  face,  and  that's  the  fourth  time  that 
particular  youngster  has  had  to  undergo  the  cleansing 
process  this  morning. 

"I  can't  say  so  much  for  the  kids'  clothes.  They 
wear  any  old  thing,  mostly  old,  but  why  not?  Why 
should  they  soil  and  wear  out  good  clothes  here  ?  This 
is  their  summer  village.  They're  all  here  for  a  holi- 
day, just  as  Frank  and  I  are,  and  there  are  no  band 
concerts,  or  balls,  or  lawn  parties  to  require  the  putting 
on  of  finery.  I  tell  you,  I  like  them,  and  it  seems  to 
me  they've  hit  off  a  mighty  sensible  way  of  living, 
right  down  close  to  Nature,  you  know." 

121 


STRON G H EART 

Livingston  had  written  himself  "to  a  stand-still,"  as 
he  expressed  it.  He  folded  his  letter  and  gazed  idly 
from  one  end  of  the  village  to  the  other,  the  position 
of  the  Chief's  wigwam  in  the  middle  of  the  semicircle 
enabling  him  to  take  in  the  whole  extent  by  merely 
turning  his  head.  Kiwetin  and  Black  Eagle  were 
seated  on  the  ground,  smoking,  in  front  of  the  latter's 
wigwam,  perhaps  one  hundred  yards  distant.  Two 
other  old  men  joined  them.  Strongheart  and  Mukwa 
were  just  arriving  with  a  canoe-load  of  freshly  cut  bal- 
sam boughs  to  replenish  the  beds  in  the  wigwam. 
They  brought  the  canoe  to  shore  and  began  to  unload, 
when  Kiwetin  called  to  Strongheart,  who  immediately 
left  Mukwa  to  go  on  with  the  work  and  joined  the 
group  at  Black  Eagle's. 

There  followed  a  scene  that  stimulated  Livingston's 
wonderment  more  than  anything  that  had  occurred 
since  his  arrival  in  the  village.  At  first  there  was 
nothing  to  attract  more  than  languid  attention,  a  con- 
versation between  Strongheart  and  Kiwetin,  the  latter 
asking  quesions,  apparently.  The  Indian  voices  rum- 
bled deeply,  as  if  the  discussion  were  of  a  routine,  un- 
emotional character,  and  Livingston  would  have  looked 
elsewhere  had  there  been  anything  moving  at  the  mo- 
ment to  interest  him;  but  the  children  were  invisible 
among  the  trees,  and  the  squaws  were  either  busy  in 
the  wigwams,  or  sitting  motionless  at  the  lake  shore, 
as  placid  and  mysterious  as  the  water  itself. 

Presently  Strongheart's  voice  sounded  sharp  and 
resentful  as  he  gave  answer  in  the  one  word  which 
Livingston  heard  understandingly  in  the  whole  con- 


STRON GHEART 

versation.  "Kahween!  kahween!"  (No!  no!)  said 
Strongheart,  and  Livingston  wondered  what  it  could 
be  that  the  young  man  was  denying  so  earnestly. 
Thereafter  Strongheart's  tones  were  tense;  what  had 
seemed  to  be  the  sullen  humor  that  so  often  sat  upon 
him,  gave  way  to  a  manner  betokening  remonstrance, 
if  not  rebellion.  Could  it  be  that  Livingston's  sug- 
gestion had  borne  fruit  in  an  open  defiance  of  paternal 
authority  and  tribal  law?  Livingston's  heart  quaked 
at  the  possibility,  for  he  had  regretted  his  hot-headed 
advice,  and  feared  to  hold  himself  responsible  if  it 
should  be  followed.  The  Chief's  tones  changed,  too, 
and  Livingston  racked  his  brain  to  discover  what  rnood 
they  voiced.  It  might  be  petulance,  or  indignation,  or 
irony.  Whatever  it  was,  it  seemed  well  calculated  to 
arouse  Strongheart  to  a  high  pitch  of  passion,  for, 
apparently  throwing  aside  all  restraint,  he  spread  his 
arms  wide  apart  and  spoke  with  great  rapidity  and 
all  the  force  of  intense  feeling  that  more  than  once 
had  thrilled  the  white  listener  when  the  words  con- 
veyed a  comprehensible  message.  Even  now  Living- 
ston was  moved ;  it  was  like  listening  for  the  first  time 
to  tragic  music,  the  indefiniteness  of  the  appeal  awak- 
ening a  vague  sense  of  fear  and  awe. 

The  old  Indians  listened  like  bronze  sphinxes.  Not 
one  restless  movement  suggested  either  dissent  from, 
or  approval  of  the  orator's  views;  not  one  pipe  was 
removed  from  its  grave  lips,  and  the  thin  wreaths  of 
smoke  rising  from  the  group  never  delayed  or  speeded 
their  rising  in  token  that  the  hearers'  pulses  were 
quickened  by  the  tempestuous  harangue;  not  even 

123 


STRONGHEART 

when  Strongheart  came  to  his  strange  climax  was 
there  so  much  as  a  shrug,  or  a  glance  aside,  to  say 
that  his  argument  had  made  an  impression  one  way 
or  the  other. 

That  climax  astonished  Livingston  beyond  measure. 
Strongheart  suddenly  put  his  hands  to  his  body  and 
fairly  ripped  off  his  outing  shirt  and  tore  it,  and  his 
citified  necktie,  in  two ;  he  cast  his  hat  on  the  ground 
and  put  his  foot  on  it ;  fists  clenched  and  raised  in  air, 
he  stood  for  a  half  minute  longer,  crying  out  his 
peroration;  then,  having  paused  for  a  few  seconds 
motionless,  silent,  his  eyes  gazing  over  the  heads  of 
his  audience  to  infinite  distance,  he  dropped  his  arms, 
turned  about  abruptly,  and  went  back  to  his  work 
with  Mukwa. 

The  old  men  puffed  on  as  before,  and  it  seemed  to 
Livingston  that  several  minutes  elapsed  before  he 
heard  again  the  deep  rumble  of  their  voices. 

Mystified  by  this  scene,  Livingston  sat  long  in  retro- 
spection, recalling  the  bitterness  of  Strongheart's  Eng- 
lish speeches,  his  tragic  romance,  his  furious  assault  on 
Fuller;  recalling  the  Chief's  solemn  condemnation  of 
civilization ;  reviewing  all  the  details,  picturesque  and 
suggestive,  of  the  primitive  life  in  the  village ;  and  he 
came  to  shrink  with  something  like  awe  from  his  close 
contact  with  elemental  passions.  What  had  he,  a  mere 
tyro  from  an  artificial  civilization  of  which  he  knew  as 
yet  only  its  most  superficial  features,  what  had  he  to 
do  with  such  beings  as  these?  How  should  he  pre- 
sume to  advise  and  guide  them?  In  this  mood  he 
could  not  bring  himself  to  ask  Strongheart  about  the 

124 


STRONGER  ART 

scene  he  had  witnessed,  and  at  the  time  Strongheart 
made  no  mention  of  it;  he  came  and  went  as  before, 
a  little  more  silent,  perhaps,  but  as  solicitous  as  ever 
for  the  comfort  of  his  injured  guest. 

Later,  when  many  other  things  had  happened,  Liv- 
ingston learned  what  it  was  that  had  passed  before 
his  uncomprehending  eyes.  The  Chief  began  by 
asserting  that  his  son  had  been  talking  with  their  guest 
about  schools,  and  Strongheart  acknowledged  the  fact. 
Kiwetin  reminded  Strongheart  that  he  had  been  to 
school  more  than  any  other  member  of  the  tribe;  he 
had  been  away  many  years;  he  knew  many  strange 
words ;  he  could  write ;  he  could  read  not  only  English, 
but  the  language  of  a  dead  people ;  and  so  on,  a  review 
of  facts  to  which  the  son  assented  sullenly,  perceiving 
that  they  preluded  something  which  would  be  to  his 
discomfort. 

"You  are  discontented  with  our  Indian  ways,"  said 
Kiwetin,  after  the  groundwork  of  the  discussion  had 
been  laid. 

"I  am  discontented  with  them,"  Strongheart  re- 
sponded. 

"You  would  like  to  go  back  to  the  whites." 

"Yes,  I  would." 

"You  ought  to  be  an  Indian." 

"I  am  an  Indian.    Therefore  I  cannot  go  back." 

"But  all  the  time  you  miss  and  regret  the  ways  of 
the  whites,  and  because  we  do  not  adopt  them,  you 
would  go  back." 

"I  would  like  to  know  more  of  their  ways." 

"Our  guest  has  been  inciting  you  to  fresh 
125 


STRONGHEART 

discontent.  You  have  asked  him  to  plead  with 
me." 

It  was  here  that  Strongheart  gave  vent  to  the  em- 
phatic denial  that  Livingston  had  recognized  through 
understanding  the  one  word  he  used. 

"He  has  talked  to  me,"  said  Kiwetin,  after  the  ex- 
plosive "No!" 

"It  was  his  own  wish/'  Strongheart  protested.  "I 
did  not  ask  him  to  speak  to  you.  I  advised  against  it, 
for  I  knew  he  could  not  persuade  you.  You  are  more 
fixed  than  the  hills.  The  sun  will  rise  in  the  West 
and  the  moon  give  heat,  when  you  consent  to  see  good 
in  the  white  man." 

"I  see  good  in  the  white  man  in  his  own  place," 
Kiwetin  retorted.  "The  white  man's  life  is  his  own, 
and  he  is  welcome  to  it.  But  I  believe  you.  Living- 
ston spoke  from  his  own  heart,  not  from  yours,  and  I 
like  him.  He  has  the  courage  to  speak  his  mind. 
He  understands  us  better  now,  and,  before  he  leaves 
us,  he  will  not  only  see  that  you  and  all  Indians  be- 
long where  they  were  born,  but  that  you  are  to  be 
despised  for  wishing  to  be  anything  but  what  Nature 
made  you." 

"Let  him  see  it,  then!"  cried  Strongheart,  his  pas- 
sion leaping  beyond  the  bounds  set  by  respect  for 
paternal  authority.  "What  is  it  to  me  what  he  thinks  ? 
What  care  I  what  he  sees?  It  is  enough  that  I  see, 
I,  Soangetaha,  son  of  Kiwetin.  I  do  know  things  of 
which  you  are  ignorant.  I  do  know  that  your  stub- 
born determination  to  cling  to  the  old  ways  will  be 
the  ruin  of  the  race.  Can  I  stand  by  and  see  my  race 

126 


STRON  GHEART 

shrivel  on  the  face  of  the  earth  like  weeds  in  Autumn, 
and  not  be  discontented?" 

"You  can  be  anxious  about  your  race,"  said  Kiwetin 
harshly,  "and  still  be  an  Ojibway.  I  have  passed 
many  nights  under  the  stars  trying  to  find  in  my  mind 
the  answer  to  the  question,  what  is  to  become  of  us? 
and  I  have  been  true  to  my  race.  I  am  an  Ojibway. 
I  flaunt  no  rags  to  show  my  superiority.  I  live  the  life 
of  my  people.  I  wear  such  clothes  as  they  have  chosen 
to  wear  since  the  deer  became  so  scarce  that  skins  may 
not  always  be  had.  I  parade  no  shirts  and  hats  from 
the  white  man's  cities.  I  am  an  Ojibway,  and  I  would 
have  my  son  be  an  Ojibway  and  forget  the  vanity  he 
learned  in  his  days  at  the  white  man's  school." 

Then  said  Strongheart,  stretching  his  arms  in  a 
comprehensive  gesture,  "This  is  my  land,  here  are  my 
people,  here  I  must  live.  I  am  an  Ojibway,  for  such 
was  I  born,  and  nothing  can  change  me.  What  is 
this  you  complain  of  ?  You  use  many  words,  but  they 
are  as  ashes  heaped  upon  the  coals  of  a  dying  fire. 
What  are  these  ideas  that  have  burned  themselves 
almost  out?  You  charge  me  with  discontent  with  the 
Indian  ways.  What  are  they  ?  Let  your  memories  tell 
me,  for  the  ways  you  really  have  in  mind  no  longer 
exist.  They  linger  in  the  recollections  of  old  men,  and 
that  is  all.  You,  Chief  Kiwetin ;  you,  Black  Eagle,  and 
you  others,  answer :  where  is  your  ancient  faith  ?  has 
it  not  faded  before  the  light  that  shines  in  the  teaching 
of  the  whites?  Where  are  your  war  bonnets,  your 
fringed  shirts  of  deerskin,  your  decorated  leggings? 
are  they  not  laid  aside  only  to  be  brought  out  on  such 

127 


- STRONGHEART 

special  occasions  as  festivities,  or  revivals  of  old  cus- 
toms for  amusement  only?  You  cry  shame  on  me  for 
wearing  a  city  hat  and  a  city  shirt;  what  is  it  you 
have  on?  Not  such  garments  as  the  white  men  wear 
who  visit  us,  not  such  garments  as  your  fathers  wore, 
but  a  pitiful  mixture,  part  white,  part  Indian — half- 
breed  clothes !  They  stand  as  symbols  of  your  exist- 
ence, a  mongrel  life,  and  you  pretend  to  be  proud 
of  it! 

"Oh!  the  days,  the  weeks,  the  months  you  have 
spent  grumbling  to  one  another  at  the  encroachment 
of  the  whites !  They  are  changing  all  things,  you 
whine,  and,  with  feeble  resentment,  you  declare  that 
the  old  Indian  ways  must  be  preserved,  while  all  the 
time  you  practise  some  of  the  ways  of  the  whites,  and 
you  know  in  your  hearts  that  you,  or  your  children,  will 
have  to  practise  still  others.  Ask  yourselves  why  you 
have  adopted  the  white  man's  religion,  an  imitation 
of  his  garments,  a  weak  semblance  of  his  methods  in 
other  matters?  You  know  that  it  is  because  of  a 
certain  power  the  whites  have  that  is  greater  than 
yours.  We  could  attain  that  power  if  you  would  not 
prevent  us.  You  throttle  your  race  by  denying  it 
opportunity  to  progress. 

"What  makes  the  power  of  the  whites?  Superior 
physical  strength  ?  No !  Superior  mental  gifts  ?  No ! 
KIKENDASSOWIN — it  is  KNOWLEDGE!  They  have 
learned,  and  they  know  what  they  have  learned.  They 
think  fast.  Forty  times  they  circle  a  subject  while 
the  Indian  is  feeling  of  its  outer  edge.  The  Indian 
sits  still  and  waits,  the  white  man,  with  sure  knowl- 

128 


STRONGHEART 

edge,  goes  ahead  and  acts.  We  can  teach  them  the 
secrets  of  the  forest ;  they  control  us  by  their  knowl- 
edge of  the  secrets  of  the  air,  the  water,  the  lightning 
and  the  sunlight. 

"What  do  you  look  forward  to,  you  old  men? 
Death!  Grim  Pauguk  holds  out  his  hands  not  now 
to  men  and  women  here  and  there,  but  to  a  whole 
people,  and  you  who  have  the  power  to  thrust  him 
aside  with  knowledge,  you  sit  idle  in  your  wigwams 
and  resent  the  efforts  of  any  who  seek  to  gain  the 
power  to  defeat  him.  Hear  me,  Chief  Kiwetin:  your 
policy  means  a  choice  of  shameful  death  by  stagnation, 
or  quick  but  glorious  extermination.  I  am  an  O jib- 
way,  and  here  I  throw  at  your  feet  the  trifles  which 
you  have  magnified  into  symbols  of  my  adherence  to 
civilization.  Bid  me  act,  and  never  again  will  I  put 
on  garments  of  the  white  man,  but  in  their  stead  I 
bid  you  bring  forth  the  war  bonnet.  The  only  way 
to  be  Indian  is  to  cast  off  all  traces  of  civilization. 
Bedeck  yourselves  with  eagle  feathers ;  make  the  lake 
tremble  with  the  clamor  of  the  war  drum ;  bid  me  lead 
the  people  to  a  demonstration  that  we  are  Indians  now 
as  our  fathers  were,  and  that,  if  we  cannot  live  as 
our  fathers  did,  we  prefer  to  die  in  hopeless  war. 

"Thus  only  can  we  be  truly  Indian  and  realize  your 
complaining  dreams.  Otherwise,  Chief,  we  must  gain 
knowledge,  or  die  ingloriously.  I,  Soangetaha,  have 
spoken  my  mind.  You  have  my  deepest  and  most 
profound  thoughts." 

Thus  ended  the  debate  between  father  and  son  in 
which  each  was  unjust  to  the  other,  and  each  spoke 

129 


STRONGHEART 

with  imperfect  comprehension  of  the  situation.  It 
was  Black  Eagle  who  broke  the  long  silence  that  fol- 
lowed Strongheart's  fiery  address. 

"There  is  much  truth  in  what  the  young  man  says," 
said  he. 


130 


CHAPTER  X 

DICK   TO  DOROTHY 

I've  had  a  severe  disappointment  which  I  must  tell 
you  about  because  I  have  already  paved  the  way  for 
it  in  this  screed,  and  my  record  must  be  complete. 
Only,  when  I  paved  the  way,  I  thought  I  was  prepar- 
ing a  climax  of  joy.  It's  about  that  land-grabbing 
scheme  I  tried  to  upset.  I  may  as  well  explain  now, 
as  I'm  pretty  nearly  over  the  difficulty,  why  and  how 
it  is  that  I  have  found  time  to  write  these  yards  of 
narrative.  I  had  a  bit  of  an  accident,  hurt  my  feet 
so  that  walking  was  out  of  the  question  for  a  few 
days.  Didn't  mention  it  before,  for  I  didn't  want 
anybody  to  worry,  and  now  there's  no  excuse  for  the 
slightest  anxiety,  for  I  tried  my  weight  on  my  feet 
today,  and  stood  it  very  well  for  several  minutes.  A 
week  more  of  rest,  and  I'll  be  able  to  walk  and  run 
as  well  as  ever.  It  was  only  a  sprain,  you  know,  but 
it  might  have  been  worse,  and,  as  a  matter  of  strict 
fact,  I  owe  my  life  to  Strongheart.  I'll  go  into  all 
the  thrilling  details  when  I  get  back  to  little  old  New 
York. 

So,  you  see,  time  would  have  hung  heavy  for  a 
man  who  was  perfectly  well  but  under  the  necessity 
of  keeping  still,  if  it  hadn't  been  that  he  could  imagine 

131 


STRONGHEART 

he  was  talking  with,  or  rather  at,  you  by  writing  this 
endless  screed.  That's  the  trouble  with  this  kind  of 
talk — all  one-sided.  I've  had  an  unfair  advantage 
which  I  would  have  surrendered  gladly  if  I  could  have 
heard  your  voice  at  appropriate  intervals  in  an  "Oh, 
my!"  or,  "For  goodness  sake!"  only  you  don't  give 
expression  to  such  frivolous  comments  so  far  as  I 
know. 

Well,  here  we  go  wandering  and  maundering  just 
as  if  white  paper  cost  nothing,  and  fountain  pens  never 
ran  dry.  You  see,  I  hate  so  to  confess  my  disap- 
pointment. Marsh  and  his  party  got  back  to  the  vil- 
lage on  the  fifth  day  after  Steve  started  to  the  Soo. 
Frank,  who  went  with  them — see  note  to  that  effect 
several  pages  back — reports  having  had  a  glorious 
time,  superb  fishing,  magnificent  pictures,  and  all  that. 
So  he's  all  right,  and  we  will  dismiss  him.  The  land- 
grabbers  pitched  camp  where  they  were  before,  just 
as  if  they  expected  to  stay  all  summer,  and  the  old 
Chief  gave  them  the  glad  hand  and  joshed  them  mer- 
rily. Kiwetin  would  have  made  a  howling  success 
as  a  politician  if  only  he  could  have  been  born  in 
New  York  and  had  the  advantage  of  a  Tammany 
education.  It  was  his  policy,  you  see,  to  jolly  them 
along,  for  he  had  promised  Steve  not  to  refuse  to  sign 
before  he  came  back.  Marsh  thought  the  venerable 
diplomat  was  all  ready  to  fall,  and  delicately  suggested 
a  resumption  of  the  council  sessions,  to  which  Kiwetin 
blandly  expressed  his  entire  willingness,  but  pointed 
out  that  nothing  could  come  of  it  just  yet,  as  Black 
Eagle,  one  of  the  sub-chiefs,  was  absent. 

132 


STRONGHEART 

"It  wouldn't  be  binding  without  Black  Eagle's  mark 
on  the  paper,"  quoth  Kiwetin,  "and  if  we  go  over  all 
the  business  now,  we'll  have  to  go  all  over  it  again 
when  he  gets  back." 

"How  long's  he  going  to  be  gone?"  Marsh  de- 
manded, with  what  I  thought  was  an  air  of  suspicion. 

"Oh,  tomorrow  probably,"  says  Kiwetin,  "or  the 
day  after,  possibly.  Not  later  than  the  day  after, 
surely." 

The  ancient  wire-puller  was  safe  on  that,  for,  the 
moment  he  heard  that  Marsh  and  his  crew  were  ap- 
proaching the  village,  Kiwetin  sent  Black  Eagle  off 
in  a  hurry  on  the  way  to  the  Soo.  Black  Eagle  was 
instructed  to  hit  the  trail  until  he  got  so  far  from  the 
village  that  none  of  Marsh's  crowd  would  likely  stum- 
ble on  him,  and  wait  there  till  Steve  came  along  and 
then  return  with  him.  That  device,  you  see,  made  it 
certain  that  Marsh  and  his  men  would  stay  till  Steve 
returned. 

Steve  came  in  next  evening,  that  was  yesterday, 
bringing  with  him  a  surveyor  and  a  kit  of  instruments. 
The  surveyor,  Henry  Johnson,  was  led  to  Kiwetin's 
wigwam  and  quartered  in  it.  He  told  us  things  at  once 
that  justified  all  our  suspicions,  for  it  proved  that  he 
was  the  very  man  Marsh's  crowd  had  engaged  last 
Spring  to  fix  the  lines  of  the  tract  they  wanted.  John- 
son had  a  government  map  of  the  region,  on  which 
there  were  few  details,  of  course,  but  which  was  suf- 
ficiently accurate  for  our  purposes,  and  Johnson  could 
fill  in  such  matters  as  lakes  and  high  hills  with  pencil. 
Well,  he  had  marked  on  the  map  the  exact  boundaries 

133 


STRONGHEART 

as  they  would  have  fallen  if  the  Indians  had  accepted 
the  definitions  of  latitude  and  longitude  laid  down  in 
the  contract.  Every  acre  they  own  was  included  in  it ! 
The  map  Marsh  showed  was  a  fake.  You  see  how 
the  ignorant  redmen  would  have  been  taken  in.  The 
map  offered  by  the  whites  wouldn't  have  counted,  but 
the  precise  boundaries  as  defined  in  the  papers  would ; 
and  once  the  scoundrels  had  got  possession  of  the 
land,  I  am  as  certain  as  can  be  that  the  Indians  would 
have  been  frozen  out  of  the  company,  and  their  pos- 
sessions would  have  dwindled  to  their  meagre  hold- 
ings on  the  reservation  proper,  which,  of  course,  they 
cannot  dispose  of,  the  law  forbidding  it. 

I  think  I  hear  you  wonder  why  I  am  disappointed. 
Why!  when  we  got  up  this  morning  we  discovered 
that  our  white  adventurers  had  folded  up  their  tents 
in  the  night,  or  at  all  events  at  daybreak,  which  is 
around  three  o'clock,  and  stolen  away !  I  did  so  want 
to  be  in  at  the  death  and  see  those  fellows  when  the 
exposure  of  their  rascality  was  made.  I  had  some  hot 
speeches  all  framed  up  for  the  occasion,  too,  and  I 
can't  foresee  any  opportunity  of  shooting  them  off 
unless  a  misguided  constituency  some  day  sends  me  to 
Congress  and  I  can  discover  frauds  which  can  be  lam- 
basted by  substituting  "wrongs  of  the  peepul"  for 
"wrongs  of  the  Indians,"  and  things  like  that.  You 
•'  see,  the  land-grabbers  had  recognized  Johnson,  and 
one  of  them  got  a  chance  to  ask  him  why  he  was  here. 
He  answered  frankly  enough  that  he  had  been  engaged 
to  verify  the  lines  he  had  made  for  them  some  months 
before.  Of  course  he  never  would  have  had  a  chance 

134 


STRONGHEART 

to  make  that  admission  if  Frank  or  I  could  have  had 
the  management  of  his  coming  into  the  village.  We 
would  have  hidden  him  away,  and  sprung  him  at  the 
dramatic  moment  like  a  jack-in-the-box;  but  Steve  is 
no  diplomatist.  Honest  as  the  sun,  and  simple  as  the 
most  untutored  Indian,  he  marched  right  in  without 
concealment,  and  the  land-grabbers,  seeing  that  ex- 
posure was  certain,  preferred  to  sneak  rather  than 
face  it. 

Their  departure  was  confession  of  their  fraudulent 
intent,  though  we  needed  no  more  evidence  than  what 
the  surveyor  gave  us.  Poor  Steve  was  all  broken  up 
over  it,  for  he  was  certain  that  his  friend  Marsh  would 
be  cleared  of  any  suspicion  of  wrong-doing.  Kiwetin, 
too,  was  too  much  cast  down  by  the  plain  conviction 
of  his  old  friend  to  rejoice  much  over  the  fact  that  his 
people  had  been  saved  from  inestimable  loss.  I  think 
Steve  was  actually  feeling  sore  against  me,  because  I 
had  been  instrumental  in  exposing  his  friend,  but  that, 
happily,  is  all  over  now ;  for,  just  before  noon,  Marsh 
and  Pierre,  his  half-breed  interpreter,  paddled  to  the 
village  and  explained  things.  That  is,  Marsh  did. 
Marsh  came  straight  up  to  Kiwetin's  wigwam  where 
Frank,  and  Strongheart  and  I  were,  as  well  as  the 
Chief  and  Black  Eagle.  There  was  a  lump  on  his 
cheek,  a  fresh  scar  on  his  nose,  and  a  blue  spot  at  the 
northeast  corner  of  his  left  eye.  Gee-whiskers!  but 
didn't  he  look  mad !  but  kind  of  sorrowful  and  digni- 
fied, too. 

"My  friends,"  said  he,  "I  been  took  in.  I  been  done 
good.  Them  fellers  played  me  fer  a  sucker  and  got 

135 


STRONGHEART 

me  dead  to  rights.  I  thought  they  was  square,  so  help 
me!  I  b'lieved  they  was  on  the  level,  or  I  wouldn't 
have  gone  into  their  company." 

I  must  interrupt  Marsh's  speech  to  explain  that  he 
characterized  the  company  in  terms  that  cannot  be 
employed  in  describing  the  scene  to  a  young  lady. 
"What  did  I  know  about  their  blamed  latitude  and 
longitude  ?"  cried  Marsh,  only  he  didn't  say  "blamed." 
That's  a  euphemism  that  will  serve  sufficiently  for  the 
ears  of  the  effete  and  tender  East,  but  which  would  be 
a  meaningless  misfit  in  the  wilderness.  Anyhow, 
Marsh  went  on  almost  tearfully  to  protest  that  he  had 
been  deceived,  and  that  he  had  not  been  invited  to 
join  the  company  until  after  the  surveying  had  been 
done.  They  offered  him  a  good  looking  sum,  part 
cash  and  part  stock,  to  go  in  with  them  on  account  of 
his  knowledge  of  the  Indians,  and  they  had  agreed  that 
he  might  conduct  the  negotiations  in  his  own  way, 
which  is  to  say  the  Indian  way,  and  be  the  boss  of  the 
business  until  the  papers  were  signed.  He  was  a  cats- 
paw,  you  see,  and  he  had  no  suspicion  of  crookedness 
till  the  party  lit  out  while  the  village  was  asleep.  He 
went  with  them  wondering,  because,  if  for  no  other 
reason,  there  was  pay  coming  to  him,  the  cash  part  of 
his  remuneration.  After  traveling  some  hours,  and 
pestering  them  with  questions,  it  seems  he  came  to 
an  understanding  with  them,  and  he  was  so  outraged 
that  he  wouldn't  have  taken  their  money  if  they  had 
offered  it,  which  they  didn't.  On  the  contrary,  he 
preferred  to  get  even  by  thrashing  the  whole  crowd. 
I  have  an  idea,  from  the  marks  of  battle  on  Marsh's 

136 


STRONGHEART 

face,  that  they  were  just  a  little  too  many  for  him,  but 
he  evidently  got  some  satisfaction  out  of  it,  and  when 
the  clouds  of  carnage  cleared  away,  he  compelled 
Pierre  to  come  back  with  him. 

So  we  all  shook  hands  with  Marsh,  for  we  believed 
him,  and  Steve  Winterton  was  the  happiest  man  I  ever 
saw.  The  only  thing  Steve  said  was,  "I  knowed  Tom 
Marsh  was  straight,"  but  he  has  been  sizzling  with 
joy  ever  since  the  explanation,  sitting  on  a  log,  his 
face  set  in  a  placid  grin,  his  eyes  fixed  in  supreme  con- 
tent on  Marsh,  who  is  going  to  stay  a  day  or  two  just 
to  cement  the  pleasant  understanding  arrived  at  with 
the  Indians. 

That  line  of  dots  means  that  a  day  has  elapsed  since 
I  wrote  the  words  above  it.  I  think  this  is  Thursday, 
but  I  am  not  sure,  for  nothing  happens  here  to  distin- 
.guish  one  day  from  another,  and  I've  lost  my  count. 
Yes,  I'm  much  better,  thank  you.  With  the  aid  of 
crutches  which  Strongheart  made  for  me,  I  hobbled 
this  morning  from  one  end  of  the  village  to  another, 
saying  "bozho"  at  every  wigwam,  and  getting  the 
pleasantest  greetings  from  all  the  people,  men,  women 
and  children.  Frank  and  I  will  yet  make  the  trip  to 
the  lake  which  no  white  man  has  seen,  and  to  which 
we  were  on  the  way  when  my  accident  happened.  But 
that  isn't  what  should  make  this  page  of  thrilling  in- 
terest. All  that  has  gone  before  is  overshadowed  by 
the  fact  that  STRONGHEART  is  GOING  TO  COLUMBIA! 
Doesn't  it  take  your  breath  away?  It  does  mine,  and 
I  hardly  know  how  to  describe  the  way  the  thing  came 

137 


STRONGHEART 

to  pass.  It  really  couldn't  be  done  unless  one  could 
get  into  the  minds  of  certain  Indians  and  tell  all  that 
went  on  there  for  a  considerable  time.  It  is  clear 
that  the  Chief  has  been  mulling  the  thing  over  at  least 
since  the  time  I  had  my  argument  with  him,  and  it  is 
inferable  that  he  has  discussed  it  with  Black  Eagle,  and 
probably  with  other  old  men.  Nevertheless,  nobody 
was  more  surprised  than  Strongheart.  I  had  tried  to 
give  up  the  dream,  and  had  almost  succeeded,  but 
Strongheart  never  had  permitted  himself  to  cherish  it, 
and — 

Well,  about  dark  last  night,  Frank,  Steve  and 
Strongheart  were  with  me  in  the  wigwam.  There  had 
been  wind  and  rain  in  the  afternoon,  leaving  the  even- 
ing chilly.  So  we  were  inside  with  a  good  fire  going 
and  making  the  quaint  house  as  warm  as  an  oven. 
We  were  still  going  over  and  over  the  land-grabbing 
business,  and  Steve  said  again  that  he  "knowed  Tom 
Marsh  was  straight,"  when  in  came  Chief  Kiwetin 
and  Black  Eagle.  There  was  nothing  significant  in 
that,  and  they  took  their  seats  and  lit  their  pipes  as  if 
they  meant  merely  to  join  our  conversation,  or  listen. 
It  proved  that  they  were  there  for  a  special  purpose, 
and  were  waiting  politely  for  a  cue  to  introduce  it. 
Steve  happened  to  give  the  word. 

"I  ain't  telled  ye,"  said  he,  "how  I  happened  to  find 
Johnson.  I  went  to  Silas  Walker,  one  o'  them  salt- 
water sailors  I  telled  ye  of,  to  git  his  sexton.  Si  was 
to  hum,  an'  ready  enough  to  lend  his  sexton,  which, 
says  he,  it's  strange  that  the  old  thing  should  be  gittin' 
into  service  agin,  fer  it's  only  a  few  months  since  I 

138 


STRON G HEART 

lent  it  out  to  another  party.  Is  it  gittin'  so  that  you 
have  to  use  a  sexton  to  lay  your  course  in  the  bush? 
says  he,  an'  I  asked  him  who  the  party  was  that  bor- 
ried  his  sexton,  an'  it's  Henry  Johnson,  the  surveyor, 
says  he,  he  had  a  job  locatin'  lines  an'  wanted  my 
sexton  to  complete  his  outfit,  he  havin'  his  quadroon 
but  needin'  the  sexton  to  find  out  where  he  was  at 
before  sightin'  or  somethin'  o'  that  sort,  says  he.  So 
I  streaked  it  to  Henry  Johnson,  an'  as  'twas  a  matter 
o'  business  with  him,  he  come  along  'thouten  argy- 
ment." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Kiwetin,  gravely,  "everything  hap- 
pened fortunate  after  we  once  got  started,  but  we  no 
should  got  started  if  it  no  been  for  Livingston." 

Now,  of  course  that  was  true,  and  I  knew  it,  but  I 
hastened  to  disclaim  any  merit,  or  influence  in  the 
affair,  sidetracking  all  my  scheming  with  no  end  of 
mock  modesty,  for  I  was  proud  as  a  hen  with  a  brood 
of  ducks  over  what  I  had  accomplished.  In  other 
words  I  fibbed  in  the  way  men  generally  do  under 
such  circumstances.  It's  a  way  the  male  creature  has 
of  throwing  bouquets  at  itself,  for  if  he  appears  be- 
comingly modest,  his  deeds  shine  with  the  added  lustre 
reflected  from  modesty  as  a  background,  don't  you  see  ? 
Well,  the  old  Chief  let  me  gabble  my  gabfest,  and 
when  I  had  finished,  "Yes,  yes,"  said  he,  which  appears 
to  be  his  way  of  negativing  anything  that  he  regards 
as  nonsense.  It's  highly  disconcerting,  that  "Yes,  yes," 
of  his  when  you  come  to  know  what  it  means.  I  think 
I  "blushed  like  a  fool.  Anyhow,  I  ought  to,  and  I  was 
sorry  I  hadn't  let  him  spiel  on  without  interruption. 

139 


STRONGHEART 

"And  Livingston,"  he  went  on,  calmly  ignoring  my 
vapid  disclaimers,  "no  could  done  what  he  did  without 
knowledge  of  things  the  rest  of  us  know  nothing  about. 
I  have  thought  much  about  this.  Before  Winterton 
returned  with  the  surveyor  I  saw  that  if  it  prove  that 
white  men  were  trying  to  cheat  us,  the  discovery  of 
that  fact  would  be  due  to  Livingston's  knowledge. 
That  mean,  he  had  white-man  knowledge  with  which 
to  fight  white-man  dishonesty.  This  is  very  important. 
We  Indians  must  not  overlook  it.  More  and  more 
every  year  we  have  to  deal  with  white  men  who  are 
strangers  to  us,  not  like  Winterton  and  Marsh,  who 
are  old  friends  and  honest  men,  and  it  appears  that 
even  Marsh  was  deceived,  for  Marsh  is  like  us  in  not 
having  high  knowledge.  So  it  seems  that  knowledge 
is  great  protection  to  people,  and  we  Indians  must 
have  as  much  protection  as  we  can  get.  Government 
is  supposed  to  take  care  of  us,  but  government  cannot 
see  all  things.  It  has  few  eyes  for  what  goes  on  in 
forest.  So  it  mean  that  we  Indians  must  learn  to  take 
care  of  ourselves.  This  is  a  task  what  must  fall  on 
the  young,  for  men  like  Black  Eagle  and  myself  can- 
not learn  new  ways.  It  is  necessary,  therefore,  that 
somebody  who  is  of  us,  and  who  has  interests  of  the 
people  at  heart,  should  acquire  white-man  knowledge 
for  our  protection.  So  we  have  changed  our  minds. 
The  way  this  cheat  was  discovered  and  prevented  con- 
vinces us  that  our  future  leader  should  have  more  of 
that  education  what  formerly  we  despised.  We  were 
wrong,  for  we  did  not  understand.  It  seems  there  is 
no  telling  when  knowledge  of  certain  thing  may  be 

140 


STRONGHEART 

useful  and  necessary.  Even  knowledge  of  language 
of  a  dead  people  may  some  day  save  Indians  from 
injury.  I  do  not  know,  but,  after  what  has  happened, 
I  think  all  things  are  possible  with  knowledge.  Liv- 
ingston and  Nelson,  you  been  our  good  friends.  We 
ask  you,  do  you  think  Soangetaha  could  learn  what  is 
necessary  in  school  you  go  to?" 

I  was  bewildered  with  joy,  and  I  had  had  just 
enough  experience  with  the  Indian  mind  to  perceive 
that  the  old  Chief  mustn't  be  interrupted.  You  have 
to  let  these  people  work  out  their  reasoning  in  their 
own  way.  For  both  these  reasons  I  held  my  tongue, 
wondering  how  to  contrive  an  answer  that  should  lead 
Kiwetin  on  to  the  next  point,  but  Frank  spoke  up 
quickly. 

"Of  course !"  said  he.  "There's  nothing  better  than 
Columbia.  They  teach  everything  there." 

"Yes,  yes,"  Kiwetin  responded,  "but  would  teach- 
ers let  Soangetaha  study  there?" 

"Let  him  ?"  yelled  Frank,  "they'd  tumble  over  them- 
selves for  the  privilege  of  teaching  him.  Will  you  let 
him  go?" 

'I  been  thinking  of  it,"  the  Chief  answered  with 
some  hesitation.  "You  been  our  very  good  friends, 
and  if  there  is  no  objection  I  should  like  it  much  if 
Soangetaha  could  go  to  same  school  with  you." 

I  tried  to  give  Frank  a  tip,  but  he  let  out  a  wild 
hurrah!  before  he  caught  my  wink.  You  see,  my 
debates  with  the  Indians  had  shown  me  that  in  a  mat- 
ter like  this  they  would  be  preternaturally  solemn, 
utterly  unable  to  appreciate  the  light-heartedness  with 

141 


STRONGHEART 

which  students  take  their  opportunities  for  education, 
and  I  was  just  a  little  afraid  that  Frank  would  overdo 
the  effervescent  act.  The  Chief,  you  see,  had  swung 
clear  around  the  circle,  and,  from  opposing  education 
and  condemning  civilization,  had  come  to  be  a  peti- 
tioner for  them.  It  was  our  business  to  take  him  as 
we  found  him  and  not  disturb  his  poise.  But  Frank's 
exuberance  did  no  harm.  Kiwetin  said  "Yes,  yes,"  in 
a  confused  kind  of  way,  and  filled  his  pipe,  and  while 
he  was  about  that,  I  got  a  cue  to  Frank  in  a  whisper, 
and  then  added  my  mite  to  the  discussion. 

"Of  course  Soangetaha  would  have  to  pass  an  exam- 
ination," said  I,  "but  I  think  he  could  do  it  easily, 
and  if  there  was  any  danger,  he  could  go  back  with  us 
when  we  return,  a  few"  weeks  ahead  of  school  open- 
ing, and  prepare  for  exams  by  special  study  with  a 
tutor." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Kiwetin,  then,  with  much  more 
composure,  for  this  was  talk  after  his  own  spirit,  sol- 
emn, bristling  with  difficulties,  you  see.  And  then  we 
discussed  details  for  an  hour  or  more,  details  with 
which  I  don't  need  to  burden  you,  for  you  can  easily 
see  what  would  be  the  nature  of  them.  In  the  matter 
of  expenditures,  the  Chief  said  the  tribe  would  be 
ready  to  meet  the  cost,  and  I  gathered  that  some  sort 
of  head  tax  would  be  laid,  Strongheart  going  not 
merely  as  his  father's  son,  but  as  the  tribe's  representa- 
tive. Anyhow,  they  see  their  way  in  the  matter,  the 
thing  that  interests  me  being  that  Strongheart  will 
be  with  us  when  the  term  begins. 

All  through  this  discussion  Strongheart  never  said 
li? 


STRONGHEART 

a  word.  He  wasn't  called  on  to  speak.  It  was  his 
business,  now  as  always,  to  obey  the  dictates  of  his 
elders.  But  at  the  end,  when  Kiwetin  knocked  the 
ashes  from  his  pipe  and  made  some  remark  about 
going  to  bed,  Strongheart  addressed  him  briefly  in 
O  jib  way  and  then  shook  hands  with  his  father  and 
Black  Eagle,  saying  "Migwetch,"  which  is  Ojibway 
for  "Thank  you."  After  that  he  shook  hands  with  me 
and  Frank,  with  a  "Thank  you"  in  English,  and  went 
out.  He  didn't  show  up  till  breakfast  time  this  morn- 
ing. Winterton  tells  me  that  he  went  from  us  to  his 
canoe,  paddled  around  the  lake  for  hours,  and  after- 
wards ran  miles  and  miles  along  the  forest  trails,  keep- 
ing incessantly  on  the  go  all  through  the  night.  It 
was  his  way  of  working  off  his  excess  of  joy,  I  sup- 
pose, and  if  he  hadn't  taken  such  strenuous  measures 
he  might  have  shocked  the  Chief  by  just  such  yells  and 
cavorting  as  Frank  and  I  wanted  to  indulge  in.  Really, 
if  it  hadn't  been  for  my  lame  feet,  I  fear  I  couldn't 
have  resisted  the  temptation. 


143 


Part   II 
CIVILIZATION 

CHAPTER  XI 

DOROTHY 

Fourscore  children  were  dispersed  over  the  slope 
below  the  trees  that  grew  near  the  summit.  The  sultry 
August  sun  put  a  high  premium  on  shade  that  day, 
and  the  grown-ups  who  had  undertaken  the  task  of 
looking  after  the  children  were  glad  that  the  con- 
figuration of  the  land  made  it  possible  for  them  to  sit 
under  the  trees  where  they  could  keep  their  charges  in 
view  without  any  sacrifice  of  duty.  It  was  sunlight 
for  the  youngsters,  let  it  broil  and  bake  as  it  would, 
straight,  unimpeded  sunlight,  uncontaminated  with 
city  smoke  and  dust,  unconfined  by  high  buildings  to 
a  fragmentary  stretch  along  one  side  of  a  paved  street. 
Sunlight  and  grass,  license  to  roll  on  the  turf,  liberty 
to  pick  such  flowers  as  had  survived  the  midsummer 
drought!  How  they  reveled  in  it!  Here  and  there 
you  might  see  one  lying  at  full  length,  clutching  at  the 
grass  as  if  to  assure  himself  that  it  was  real.  Again 
you  would  find  a  girl  plucking  buttercups  with  fever- 
ish haste,  forming  them  into  a  tasteless  bunch  of 

144 


STRONGHEART 

bloom,  as  if  she  feared  the  homely  flowers  might  run 
away  before  she  could  get  them.  Groups  were  at 
play,  sometimes  the  identical  ring  games  you  may 
observe  on  Second  Avenue  after  nightfall,  sometimes 
imperfect  attempts  to  imitate  the  May  festivities  which 
a  few  had  seen  from  a  distance  in  Central  Park,  when 
more  favored  children  sang  to  their  queen,  and  frol- 
icked about  the  gaily  colored  pole. 

It  was  their  one  great  holiday,  the  one  day  of  the 
Summer  for  most  of  them,  the  day  when  they  were 
expected  to  get  down  to  earth  without  let  or  hindrance, 
and  yet,  so  significant  was  it,  nearly  all  the  juvenile 
members  of  the  party  bore  evidence  of  being  especially 
dressed  for  the  occasion,  and  dressed  as  they  would 
be  for  a  function  at  the  parish  church,  or  the  school- 
house.  No  costly  clothes,  at  that,  but  no  little  finery, 
if  colored  ribbons  count  as  such,  and  considerable  re- 
gard for  conventionality,  if  starched  skirts  and  spot- 
less linen  collars  may  be  regarded  as  concessions  to 
formality.  There  were  exceptions,  not  every  one  giv- 
ing the  tribute  of  fresh  clothes  to  the  holiday,  for  some 
undoubtedly  came  in  the  only  garments  they  had ;  but 
starch  or  no  starch,  white  linen  or  bare  necks,  there 
was  no  aristocracy  of  clothing  in  the  field  community. 
They  were  on  even  terms,  out  for  fresh  air,  according 
to  the  grown-ups,  for  a  good  time,  according  to  the 
youngsters,  and  to  judge  by  ruddy  faces  and  cheerful 
voices,  they  were  getting  their  fill  of  both. 

Sheltered  by  benignant  oaks,  a  young  woman  sur- 
veyed the  chattering  slope,  her  eyes  glowing  with 
quiet  enthusiasm.  She  glanced  occasionally  at  a  spot, 

145 


STRONGHEART 

also  in  the  shade,  where  hampers  were  in  process  of 
unpacking  at  the  hands  of  two  hired  men,  assisted 
or  superintended,  or  hindered,  goodness  only  knows 
which,  by  three  exquisitely  gowned  girls  whose  voices 
rivaled  those  of  the  children  in  gaiety  of  tone  and 
incessant  action. 

"We  must  have  the  jam  under  constant  observa- 
tion," said  one,  with  an  air  of  profound  wisdom. 

"And  the  ice-cream  must  be  dished  out  by  a  person 
with  a  mathematical  eye,"  declared  another. 

"We  might  make  Ralph  Thorne  do  it." 

"Perhaps  Dorothy  would  prefer  to  take  care  of  the 
ice-cream  herself,  as  it's  so  important." 

"Whatever  became  of  that  box  of  cake— oh !  here  it 
is.  Open  it  for  me,  please." 

She  who  overlooked  these  preparations  for  the  feast 
which  was  by  no  means  the  least  of  the  day's  joys  for 
the  children,  was  quite  as  exquisitely  gowned  as  her 
assistants,  and,  in  the  eyes  of  the  young  man  who 
sprawled  on  the  ground  beside  her,  she  was  herself  the 
most  exquisitely  charming  creature  that  the  sun  had 
the  privilege  of  driving  to  shelter  in  any  part  of  the 
world.  Young  men  are  sometimes  inclined  to  bias  in 
matters  of  this  kind,  but  he  may  not  have  been  all 
wrong,  nevertheless. 

"It's  good  of  you,  Mr.  Thorne,"  said  she,  "to  take 
so  much  interest  in  my  waifs  and  strays." 

"How  could  I  help  being  interested  in  anything  that 
interests  you,  Miss  Nelson?" 

She  looked  down  at  him  for  a  moment  with  a  smile 
of  tolerant  amusement.  Then  she  laughed  outright. 

146 


STRONGHEART 

"How  impossible  you  are!"  she  exclaimed.    "What  a 
self-sacrificing  hypocrite !" 

"Miss  Nelson!"  and  he  looked  deeply  injured. 

Again  she  laughed.  "Who  was  it  who  said  some- 
thing to  the  effect  that  a  human  being  is  a  book?  It 
doesn't  matter  who,  I  am  only  thinking  how  plainly 
you  are  printed,  Mr.  Thorne." 

His  reproachful  eyes  and  down-drawn  lips  revived 
her  merriment. 

"That's  a  compliment,"  she  assured  him.  "It  was 
no  reflection  on  your  personal  appearance,  which  is 
quite  lovely,  really.  I  was  alluding  to  your  mind.  You 
are  read  as  easily  as  any  of  these  children,  and  surely 
that's  complimentary,  isn't  it?  Anything  but  am- 
biguity in  character !  But  I  must  laugh  at  you,  for  I 
know  you  are  unutterably  bored — " 

"Now,  Miss  Nelson !  you  really  discredit  your  own 
perceptions.  Am  I  so  easily  read?  Then  don't  you 
see  that  it  would  be  impossible  for  me  to  be  bored 
when  I  have  the  privilege  of  being  near  you?" 

"How  nice!  But  that's  really  the  point,  don't  you 
see  ?  You  are  trying  to  convince  me  that  you  are  my 
willing  slave — " 

"Guilty,  Miss  Nelson." 

"Then  you  must  pay  the  penalty,  and  if  you  have 
not  a  real  interest  in  what  interests  me,  you  must 
assume  it  and  act  accordingly.  Go  and  see  what  those 
boys  are  doing  please,"  and  she  indicated  a  group  of 
youngsters  at  some  distance  from  any  others  who  were 
evidently  deeply  absorbed  over  something  on  the 
ground. 

147 


STRONGHEART 

Thome  arose  obediently  and  strolled  toward  the 
group.  His  approach  was  not  noticed  by  the  boys,  for 
their  attention  was  concentrated  on  their  occupation, 
and  when  he  came  near  enough  to  hear  some  of  their 
words,  his  face  lighted  with  an  amused  smile.  This 
he  quickly  dismissed,  and  set  his  features  in  an  ex- 
pression of  severe  disapprobation  which  he  fancied 
appropriate  to  the  occasion;  for  what  he  heard  was, 
"Come  seven !  come  eleven !"  One  of  the  boys  had  a 
pair  of  dice,  some  had  a  few  pennies,  and  craps,  the 
vice  of  the  pavements,  was  in  full  swing  on  the  inno- 
cent turf. 

"See  here,  kids,  you  must  chuck  that,"  commanded 
Thome. 

There  was  a  hurried  scramble  to  get  out  of  the  way, 
a  hasty  grabbing  after  the  coppers  that  lay  on  the 
ground  as  stakes,  a  turning  of  alarmed  eyes  in  the 
direction  of  the  speaker.  For  the  moment  the  young 
miscreants  had  forgotten  that  they  were  not  in  the  city, 
and  the  interrupting  voice  appealed  to  them  as  that 
of  authority  in  the  person  of  the  obnoxious  policeman 
with  his  long  club  and  his  implacable  hostility  to  over- 
steppers  of  morality.  But  it  was  not  a  policeman; 
it  was  no  helmeted  minion  of  the  law;  only  a  good- 
looking  young  man  in  white  flannels,  whose  presence 
in  the  party  theretofore  had  been  an  unexplained  mys- 
tery. This  was  no  figure  to  strike  terror  to  the  gamin 
of  the  East  Side.  Rather  was  he  to  be  defied,  if  not 
openly  derided. 

"Gwan!"  said  the  audacious  leader  of  the  group, 
"youse  aint  de  big  noise  of  dis  'scursion." 

148 


STRON GHEART 

"Well,"  retorted  Thorne,  nettled  at  their  manifest 
disdain,  "who  is,  then?" 

"Miss  Nelson." 

"Oh,  is  she  ?  Well,  Miss  Nelson  told  me  to  see  what 
you  boys  were  up  to.  If  you  don't  think  I've  any  right 
to  stop  you,  go  and  ask  her  what  she  thinks  of  crap 
playing." 

"Don't  b'lieve  she  knows  wot  'tis,"  said  a  boy,  sul- 
lenly. 

"Don't  deceive  yourself,  Johnny.  Miss  Nelson  hasn't 
been  good  to  you  ragamuffins  all  the  year,  and  spent 
most  of  her  time  where  you  live,  without  learning  what 
craps  is." 

"Say,  youse!"  exclaimed  the  leader,  warningly, 
"youse  put  de  lid  on  yer  talk  box  or  dere'll  be  trouble, 
see  ?  We'll  spoil  dose  white  pants  o'  yourn — " 

"Get  out!"  Thorne  interrupted  roughly,  and  with  a 
threatening  gesture.  "You  don't  deserve  the  treat  Miss 
Nelson  has  got  up  for  you.  Behave  yourselves  now, 
or  I'll  see  that  she  packs  you  off  wfthout  anything 
to  eat." 

Presumably  the  appeal  to  their  appetites  had  more 
effect  on  the  juvenile  gamblers  than  the  possibility 
of  physical  violence  at  the  hands  of  a  walking  fashion 
plate ;  and  yet,  accustomed  to  being  chased  from  their 
illegal  pastime,  it  may  be  that  they  beheld  in  Thorne 
the  momentary  embodiment  of  irresistible  compulsion 
and  fled  from  him  as  a  matter  of  habit.  At  all  events, 
they  fled,  and  he  returned  to  the  shade  and  Dorothy. 

"What  was  it  ?"  she  asked. 

"I  should  think,"  said  he,  "it  would  be  enough  to 
149 


STRONGHEART 

discourage  you  from  any  further  efforts  to  improve 
the  condition  of  such  ungrateful  beggars.  They  were 
playing  craps." 

"That's  a  game  with  dice,  isn't  it  ?" 

"Yes,  and  you  understand,  don't  you?  It's  gam- 
bling. They  were  playing  for  money." 

"Horrors!"  she  exclaimed  in  manifestly  mock  ap- 
preciation of  his  scandalized  expression.  He  found  it 
exceedingly  difficult  to  understand  her,  impossible  to 
anticipate  what  seemed  to  him  her  quickly  changing 
moods.  Whatever  attitude  he  assumed,  whether  sin- 
cerely, or  in  deliberate  attempt  to  gain  her  sympathy, 
she  rebuffed  and  antagonized  him. 

"Surely,"  said  he,  and  there  was  no  mistaking  his 
earnestness,  "you  do  not  look  lightly  on  their  gam- 
bling? You  must  take  that  seriously." 

"I  do,"  she  returned  a  little  sadly.  "I  should  like  to 
wean  them  from  craps,  for,  as  they  advance  in  the 
social  scale,  it  is  so  likely  to  lead  to  poker,  and  bridge, 
and  betting  on  the  races." 

Thome  was  bewildered.  "Advance  in  the  social 
scale,"  he  echoed  confusedly. 

"Why  not?"  she  demanded.  "Is  it  likely  that  efforts 
to  make  good  citizens  of  these  boys  are  going  to  fail 
utterly?  Surely  there  are  possibilities  for  some,  if 
not  all,  for  they're  just  as  human  as  you  and  I.  There 
can  be  no  dispute  that  gambling  is  an  evil,  no  matter 
what  the  social  level  of  the  gambler.  Of  course  I 
should  like  to  kill  the  passion  for  it  in  these  boys,  and 
I  try  to,  but  it  lies  very  deep.  I  hope  you  told  them 
how  wrong  it  was?" 

150 


STRONGHEART 

She  concluded  in  a  tone  that  was  just  a  shade 
lighter,  and  the  young  man  was  quick  to  infer  that 
she  was  again  mocking  him. 

"I  told  them,"  he  answered  somewhat  stiffly,  "that 
if  they  thought  it  was  right  to  play  craps  they  should 
ask  you  about  it." 

"Did  you !"  she  exclaimed  heartily.  "Now  that  was 
fine!  You  couldn't  have  given  them  a  better  form  of 
reproof,  Mr.  Thorne,  and  I'm  really  grateful.  I  know 
that  I  have  influence  with  them,  some  influence,  I  hope 
to  make  it  greater,  and  the  reference  of  any  question 
wherein  there  is  no  real  doubt,  to  me,  is  a  help." 

Thorne  was  mollified  instantly,  and,  such  was  his 
moral  make-up,  he  had  no  difficulty  in  dismissing  from 
his  consciousness  the  fact  that  his  attitude  to  the  boys 
had  been  anything  but  sympathetic.  "You  are  most 
admirable  in  all  this,  Miss  Nelson,"  said  he,  "but  I 
don't  see  how  you  can  stand  it.  These  boys  knew 
better.  Think  of  their  rank  ingratitude !  I  told  them 
they  didn't  deserve  a  holiday.  Don't  it  make  you  feel 
that  your  sacrifices  are  thrown  away?" 

"I  am  sorry  you  told  them  they  didn't  deserve  a 
holiday,"  said  Dorothy.  "Yes,  they  knew  better,  and 
the  fact  that  they  forget  the  delights  of  the  country 
in  favor  of  the  vice  of  the  city,  shows  only  how  deep 
the  wicked  passion  lies,  and  how  hard  and  patient  the 
effort  must  be  to  eradicate  it.  I  am  sometimes  a  little 
disheartened,  yes,  sometimes,  but  with  myself,  not  with 
the  subjects.  You  are  quite  mistaken  in  regarding  me 
as  sacrificing  anything.  This  work  is  my  highest 
pleasure.  I  may  not  accomplish  much,  but  I  can  at 

151 


STRONGHEART 

least  have  the  joy  of  trying.  You  see,  I  am  more 
fortunately  circumstanced  than  these,"  and  her  eyes 
swept  the  grassy  slope.  "I  cannot  see  how  anybody  in 
what  is  called  good  circumstances  can  forbear  from 
trying  to  help  those  who  are  poor  and  unfortunate. 
Forgive  me,  Mr.  Thorne.  That's  awfully  like  preach- 
ing. I  didn't  mean  to  slip  into  it.  Confess  now,  a 
sermon  would  bore  you." 

The  seriousness  had  departed,  leaving  her  face  all 
smiles,  roguish,  enchanting. 

"On  my  word,"  he  cried,  "I  can  only  repeat  what  I 
said  before,  and  you  must  believe  me.  It  is  impossible 
for  anything  you  say  or  do  to  bore  me.  You  are  so 
far  above  me,  so  far  superior  to  any  other — " 

"Oh,  Dorothy!  Dorothy!  Come  here!"  chorused 
the  three  assistants  at  the  hampers. 

"Excuse  me,"  she  said,  rising  hastily,  "I  must  sacri- 
fice your  compliments  to  the  necessity  of  averting  dis- 
aster. No,  don't  disturb  yourself,  Mr.  Thorne,"  as 
he  began  to  rise.  "I'm  sure  there's  nothing  that  need 
trouble  you." 

He  was  glad  to  take  her  at  her  word,  for  it  meant 
that  she  would  return,  and  that  the  intimate  conversa- 
tion might  be  renewed  at  the  point  where  it  was  broken 
off.  It  had  been  impossible  thus  far  to  bring  her  mood 
even  approximately  into  tune  with  his  own,  and  in 
spite  of  her  evident  disposition  to  regard  him  flippant- 
ly, he  could  but  follow  her  example  and  try,  and  the 
present  situation  was  well  calculated  to  serve  his 
wishes.  So,  while  he  raved  a  bit  inwardly  that  some- 
thing had  happened  just  as  he  was  getting  well  started, 

152 


STRONGHEART 

he  foresaw  no  great  difficulty  in  resuming  the  subject 
after  the  emergency  at  the  hampers  had  been  met  and 
overcome. 

Thorne  threw  himself  back  on  the  turf,  inclined  to 
bask  in  the  light  of  such  happiness  as  would  be  his 
when  Dorothy  Nelson  should  one  day  say  she  loved 
him,  but  there  was  a  tiny  cloud  in  his  sky,  not  such  as 
might  properly  enough  have  been  visible  to  him  if  he 
could  have  perceived  the  immense  gulf  between  him- 
self and  Dorothy,  but  a  realistic  cloud  in  the  shape  of 
an  inquisitive  small  boy  who  stood  like  a  statue,  star- 
ing at  him.  While  talking  to  Dorothy  he  had  not 
seen  the  youngster,  and  he  was  foolishly  mortified  now 
when  he  suspected  that  the  lad  might  have  overheard 
that  ardently  begun  speech. 

"Hello,  Johnny,  what  you  doing  here?"  asked 
Thorne,  trying  to  profit  by  Dorothy's  comments,  and 
pumping  as  much  kindness  into  his  tone  as  he  could. 

"Nawthin',"  said  the  boy. 

"Well,  wouldn't  you  just  as  lieve  do  it  somewhere 
else  ?  Down  at  the  other  end  of  the  field,  eh  ?" 

The  boy  grinned.    "I  like  this  well  enough,"  said  he. 

"Oh,  you  do !  Well,  see  here,  perhaps  we  can  strike 
a  bargain.  See  this?"  and  he  held  up  a  small  coin. 
The  boy's  eyes  glistened,  and  Thorne  tossed  the  coin 
to  him.  "Now,"  he  added,  "chase  yourself,  beat  it, 
mosey,  understand?" 

It  might  have  been  better  for  Thorne  had  there 
been  less  understanding  in  that  street  arab's  mind  than 
there  was.  He  caught  the  coin  and  ran  down  hill, 
much  to  Thome's  relief,  but  presently,  when  he  came 

153 


STRONGHEART 

near  some  of  his  friends,  the  boy  slackened  his  steps, 
and  his  face  puckered  in  deep  thought. 

"Say,  fellers,"  said  he,  "see  dat?"  and  he  displayed 
his  coin. 

"Where'd  ya  get  it?"  was  the  natural  inquiry.  Such 
wealth  was  not  to  be  possessed  by  one  of  their  number 
without  immediate  suspicion  regarding  its  acquire- 
ment. 

"Dat  guy  wot  come  wid  Miss  Nelson  an'  de  goils," 
he  answered,  "he  give  it  to  me.  Wot  d'ya  t'ink  it's 
fer?  Say,  he's  dopy  on  Miss  Nelson,  he  is,  an'  when 
he's  jollying  her  he  don't  like  to  be  piped  off,  see?  He 
wants  to  be  all  by  his  lonesome  wid  her,  an'  he  gimme 
dis  to  beat  it.  Say,  ain't  dat  a  graft?" 

It  surely  was,  and  as  such  not  to  be  neglected. 
The  youngsters  of  the  streets  are  ingrained  oppor- 
tunists; they  learn  early  that  Fortune  is  not  to  be 
flouted  by  delay,  but  must  be  wooed  persistently  and 
speedily.  So  they  put  their  prematurely  wise  heads 
together  to  decide  upon  the  best  means  of  taking  ad- 
vantage of  the  occasion,  well  knowing  that  Fortune 
would  be  unlikely  to  throw  a  soft  guy  in  their  way 
again.  The  result  of  their  excogitations  was  presently 
a  cautious  advance  of  the  whole  party,  about  a  dozen, 
up  the  hill.  When  they  were  part  way  up,  all  but  one 
lay  down,  eyes  directed  toward  the  shade,  while  the 
one  sidled  onward  as  if  indetermined.  Dorothy  was 
still  busy  with  the  emergency  at  the  hampers,  and 
Thorne,  deep  in  a  revision  of  his  ardent  speech,  was 
beginning  to  feel  that  he  had  caught  the  winning 
words,  when  upon  the  glowing  page  of  his  fancy  fell 

154 


STRONG  HE ART 

a  blot.  It  jarred  him  to  the  depths  to  see  that  grinning 
youngster  almost  over  him.  He  sat  up. 

"Didn't  I  tell  you,"  he  began,  and  then  perceived 
that  the  boy  was  not  the  one  who  had  been  bribed  to 
depart  a  minute  or  two  before.  "Run  away,"  he  said 
crossly.  "I  don't  want  you  here." 

The  boy  stood  motionless.  Thorne  felt  in  his  pocket 
and  found  a  dime.  "What'll  you  take,"  he  asked,  "to 
beat  it  and  not  come  back  till  you're  called  for  din- 
ner?" 

"That,"  said  the  boy,  pointing  to  the  coin. 

Thorne  tossed  it  to  him  and  lay  down  again  as  soon 
as  he  saw  his  tormentor  move  quickly  away.  The 
spell  had  been  broken  somehow.  He  could  not  get 
back  to  the  precise  phraseology  that  had  seemed  §o 
promising  of  effect.  Dorothy's  presence  might  recall 
it.  He  raised  himself  on  his  elbow  to  see  what  she 
was  doing — Holy  mackerel !  there  was  another  prying 
ragamuffin  sidling  up  to  the  shade  with  an  expectant 
grin  on  his  face ! 

"What  the  dev — "  Thorne  began,  and  collected  him- 
self. "What  do  you  want?"  he  demanded. 

There  are  lads  of  the  street  whose  wits  are  so  sharp- 
ened that  they  can  meet  any  attack  with  appropriate 
repartee  and  win  a  victory  by  sheer  audacity,  but 
Number  Three  had  not  risen  quite  to  that  level.  His 
lips  moved,  but  words  wouldn't  come ;  so  he  swallowed 
hard  and  grinned.  The  light  of  suspicion  began  to 
dawn  upon  Thorne,  such  a  light  as  should  have  made 
him  view  the  foibles  of  all  mankind  with  tolerance  if 
not  with  mirth ;  but  Thorne  was  not  of  the  kind,  nor 

155 


STRONGHEART 

in  the  mood,  at  that  particular  time,  to  see  the  humor- 
ous side  of  the  affair. 

"Get  out  of  here,  you  damned  monkey,"  he  ex- 
claimed under  his  breath,  "get  out  before  I  wring  your 
neck !" 

The  boy  found  words  at  that.  "It's  wuth  a  nickel," 
said  he. 

"Worth  nothing!"  retorted  Thorne,  thoroughly  an- 
gry ;  "those  other  kids  put  you  up  to  this,"  and  then 
he  became  speechless,  for  a  dozen  boys  arose  from 
their  places  in  the  grass  a  little  way  down  the  slope, 
and  began  to  storm  the  heights.  They  had  yielded  to 
impatience.  From  a  distance  it  had  begun  to  look  as 
if  the  graft  were  in  danger  of  exhaustion,  and  there 
was  no  strong,  diplomatic  hand  to  hold  them  in  check 
that  the  game  might  be  played  warily.  Each  was 
incited  by  eager  desire  to  have  a  chance  at  the  last 
coin,  if  but  one  more  should  be  forthcoming. 

Thorne  was  so  shocked  with  amazement,  so  outraged 
by  their  audacity,  that  his  impulse  actually  was  to  run 
away,  for  he  was  utterly  at  loss  how  to  meet  this 
cohort.  He  stood  up,  and  the  boys  halted  a  few  paces 
distant.  As  he  merely  frowned  at  them  in  deep  de- 
spair of  saying  anything  that  could  reach  their  intel- 
ligence without  also  reaching  the  ear  of  Miss  Nelson, 
and  so  offending  her,  the  boys,  one  and  all,  put  on  the 
expectant  grin.  It  was  Thome's  turn  to  swallow,  for 
it  wouldn't  do  at  all  to  utter  the  words  that  arose 
within  him,  oh,  such  feeling  words  as  were  then 
throttled ! 

"Well,"  he  said,  after  having  mastered  himself,  but 
156 


STRONGHEART 

his  tone  was  black  with  wrath,  "speak  up!  What's 
your  song?" 

"We'll  beat  it  'f  you  want  us  to,  mister,"  replied 
the  boldest  of  the  attacking  party,  with  ingratiating 
blandness. 

"Beat'jt,  then." 

"How  much,  mister?" 

"Nothing,  you  infernal  little  blackmailers!  Not  a 
red!  Understand?  Now  get  out  before  I  tell  Miss 
Nelson  what  a  nuisance  you  are.  There'll  be  no  ice- 
cream and  cake  coming  to  you  if  you  don't  stop  an- 
noying me,  understand?" 

The  boys  hesitated.  Their  grins  gave  way  to  scowls 
of  disappointment  mingled  a  bit  with  fear,  for  this 
white-clad  young  man  evidently  was  just  mean  enough 
to  tell  tales  as  he  threatened,  and  Miss  Nelson  would 
likely  talk  to  them  in  a  way  that  was  a  hundred  times 
worse  than  a  licking,  or  going  hungry;  but  it  was 
hard  to  forego  such  graft  as  two  of  their  number  had 
found  so  easy  and  profitable. 

"Nickel  apiece  aint  much,  mister,"  grumbled  the 
leader. 

"Not  a  red!"  snapped  Thome.  "Get  out,  now,  or 
I'll  get  you  into  trouble." 

At  that  moment  Dorothy  finished  what  she  had  to 
do  at  the  hampers  and  began  to  return.  The  boys 
saw  her  and  wheeled  about.  Most  of  them  ran  down 
the  slope,  but  the  leader  and  one  or  two  others  were 
more  dignified  in  their  retreat;  and  the  leader  could 
not  be  vanquished  thus.  He  must  have  the  last  shot, 
if  he  could  not  get  a  nickel.  So  he  turned  around. 

157 


STRONGHEART 

"Say,  youse,"  said  he,  with  lofty  scorn,  "youse  is  a 
four-flusher,  youse  is."  Then,  undoubtedly  relieved  of 
a  heavy  burden,  he  stalked  after  his  companions. 

"What  was  it,  Mr.  Thorne?"  asked  Dorothy,  look- 
ing from  the  retreating  boys  to  his  flushed  face. 

"Oh,"  he  answered,  with  a  brave  attempt  at  in- 
difference, "just  some  impudence  of  the  young  sav- 
ages." 

"I  am  sorry  if  they  have  annoyed  you,"  said  she. 
"I'll  have  a  talk  with  them." 

"Don't,  please,"  he  urged,  and  he  was  wholly  sin- 
cere, for  he  was  morally  certain  that  if  she  approached 
the  boys  they  would  give  her  a  true  account  of  the 
episode,  and  he  could  not  endure  the  thought  of  being 
made  ridiculous  in  her  eyes.  "Let  it  go,  Miss  Nelson. 
Everything  is  all  right  now  you  have  returned." 

"You  are  so  easily  pleased,"  she  laughed,  "but  your 
speaking  of  savages  reminds  me  of  something  that  will 
interest  you.  You're  going  to  have  a  savage  of  the 
real  kind  in  Columbia  next  term." 

Thorne  looked  his  undeniable  interest  and  curiosity, 
and  Dorothy  continued,  "The  boys  would  rebuke  me 
for  calling  him  a  savage,  I'm  sure,  and  I  really  don't 
mean  it,  but  force  of  habit,  you  know.  The  street  boys 
cannot  give  up  their  gambling  when  they  come  to  the 
country,  and  I  find  it  hard  to  forget  the  prejudices  of 
my  childhood  when  I  think  of  Indians.  I  used  to  be 
so  frightened  at  the  very  thought  of  them." 

"Do  you  mean  that  there's  an  Indian  coming  to 
Columbia  ?" 

"Yes,  an  Ojibway,  son  of  a  chief.  His  name  is 
15F 


STRONGHEART 

Strongheart.  The  boys  came  upon  him  quite  by  acci- 
dent. I  infer  from  what  Dick  writes  that  it  was  some 
sort  of  accident  to  himself,  and  that  Strongheart  saved 
his  life.  Dick  hasn't  said  much  about  that  part  of  it, 
but  his  letters  are  full  to  running  over  with  Strong- 
heart,  who  must  be  a  decidedly  interesting  man.  I 
am  quite  eager  to  see  him." 

"So  you've  heard  from  Dick,"  said  Thorne,  and  a 
girl  of  much  less  fine  perceptions  than  Dorothy's  could 
not  have  failed  to  note  the  twang  of  jealousy  in  his 
tone.  He  had  spoken  with  strenuous  effort  to  appear 
indifferent,  but  his  soul  was  in  torment,  and  the  pain 
at  his  heart  inevitably  found  an  outlet  in  his  voice. 

"Yes,"  said  Dorothy,  sweetly,  quite  as  if  she  found 
pleasure  in  adding  to  his  torment,  "and  such  letters! 
He  was  incapacitated  by  his  accident,  it  seems,  and 
so  had  no  end  of  time  for  writing.  There  was  a  great 
deal  to  write  about,  and  his  letters  are  quite  like  a 
continued  story.  He  has  become  deeply  interested  in 
the  Indians,  and  especially  in  Strongheart,  whom  he 
fairly  idolizes." 

"I'll  bet  there's  one  person  he  idolizes  more,"  thought 
Thorne,  morosely.  "How  does  it  happen  that  the  In- 
dian is  coming  to  Columbia?"  he  asked. 

"He  wants  further  education,  and  he  comes  here 
simply  because  the  boys  are  here.  If  they  had  been  in 
Yale,  doubtless  he  would  have  gone  there.  But  there 
are  great  reasons  at  the  base  of  his  decision  to  come 
to  the  East  at  all,  reasons  and  difficulties,  opposition, 
events  leading  to  a  change  of  views — it's  all  in  Dick's 
letters.  Would  you  like  to  read  them?" 

159 


STRONGHEART 

"Charmed,"  said  Thorne,  and  Dorothy  bit  her  lip. 

In  fact  the  burden  at  his  heart  was  somewhat  light- 
ened. It  was  inconceivable  that  Dorothy  Nelson  would 
descend  to  a  vulgar  bluff,  and  when  she  offered  him 
the  privilege  of  reading  Dick's  letters,  she  meant  it. 
Therefore  they  could  not  be  love  letters,  and  therein 
lay  comfort;  but  the  sense  of  rivalry  lingered  and 
embittered  the  rest  of  the  day.  Dorothy  chatted  on 
about  the  trip  of  her  brother  and  his  chum  in  the  wil- 
derness, and  Thorne  listened  with  polite  but  for  the 
most  part  silent  attention.  In  due  course  he  did  his 
share  manfully  in  distributing  refreshments  to  the 
fourscore  hungry  youngsters;  he  helped  assemble 
them  when  it  was  time  for  departure;  and  up  to  the 
very  last  he  put  himself  to  vast  discomfort  in  his  effort 
to  win  the  gracious  esteem  of  the  girl  who  gave  so 
much  of  her  time  to  philanthropy. 

No  further  opportunity  for  intimate  conversation 
arose  during  the  day  in  the  fields.  Perhaps  Dorothy 
was  to  blame  for  that,  for  the  inquisitive  boys  kept 
their  distance,  and  the  other  girls  seemed  willing  that 
Dorothy  should  monopolize  Thorne ;  but  youth  is  per- 
sistent when  it  comes  to  pushing  an  affair  of  the  heart, 
and  Thorne  bided  his  time  with  patience  worthy  of 
his  cause,  and  worthy  of  a  more  admirable  character. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  he  might  speak  when  at  last  the 
children  had  been  dismissed  in  their  home  neighbor- 
hood, and  the  responsibilities  of  the  day,  so  far  as 
Dorothy  was  concerned,  were  over;  but  Dorothy 
could,  or  would,  talk  only  of  her  self-appointed  work. 

"You  have  been  very  good,  Mr.  Thorne,"  said  she. 
160 


STRONGHEART 

"I  really  didn't  think  you  could  endure  the  whole  day 
with  us." 

"Miss  Nelson !  when  you — " 

"When  I,  and  not  philanthropy,  was  the  magnet," 
she  interrupted  merrily.  "I  understand,  Mr.  Thorne. 
Let  all  that  go  without  saying,  and  try,  oh !  do  try  to 
get  up  a  real  interest  in  human  beings.  There  is  such 
need  of  sympathy  in  the  world.  Don't  you  see?" 

She  spoke .  pleadingly,  as  if  her  one  desire  were  to 
make  a  convert. 

"I'm  not  lacking  in  interest  in  one  human  being,"  he 
began,  but  she  would  not  listen. 

"That  is  selfishness,"  she  said,  "absolute  selfishness, 
and  you  don't  do  yourself  credit  by  even  thinking  in 
such  a  way  at  the  end  of  such  a  day." 

"No,  I  suppose  not,"  he  responded  with  resentful 
humility.  "But  the  difference  between  us  is  one  of 
degree,  I'm  sure.  I  could  be  philanthropic,  too,  if  the 
cause  were  big  enough.  What  I  can't  do,  and  I  might 
as  well  confess  it,  for  you  seem  to  see  it  plainly  enough, 
is  to  get  down  with  any  sort  of  enthusiasm  to  the 
pleasures,  the  needs  if  you  prefer,  of  a  parcel  of  raga- 
muffins. It  seems  like  such  a  waste  of  splendid  effort 
and  spirit,  Miss  Nelson.  There  is  nothing  so  pitiable 
as  misdirected  energy,  is  there?  And  when  it  is  mis- 
directed consciously,  it  is  unpardonable.  A  person  of 
unusual  intelligence  should  make  sure  to  find  a  practi- 
cable field  for  her  energy.  I  hope  I  do  not  offend 
you?" 

"I  like  you  ever  so  much  better  when  you  are  honest, 
Mr.  Thorne." 

161 


STRONGHEART 

He  grimaced  uneasily.  "You  hit  hard,  don't  you?" 
he  said  by  way  of  passing  lightly  over  the  allusion  to 
his  earlier  pretenses  at  interest  in  her  charges.  "You 
don't  seem  to  give  me  credit  for  trying  to  get  up  an 
interest  in  your  street  gamin.  But  let  that  pass.  Take 
my  view  of  philanthropy,  now.  If  it  were  a  matter 
of  building  hospitals,  or  organizing  relief  for  some 
community  overwhelmed  by  earthquake,  or  fire — " 

"Yes,"  she  interrupted,  with  an  air  of  finality,  "that 
is  like  a  man.  He  must  have  something  huge,  im- 
posing, obvious,  to  stir  him.  It  shows  how  necessary 
it  is  that  there  should  be  women  willing  to  submerge 
themselves  in  attention  to  little  things.  Good  night, 
Mr.  Thorne,"  and  she  held  out  her  hand  with  a  smile 
that  was  as  free  from  mockery  as  it  was  beautiful. 

Thorne  was  enraptured  and  driven  to  despair  by  it. 
So  worn  was  he  by  the  long  day  of  boredom,  and  his 
futile  efforts  to  arouse  her  interest  in  himself,  that  he 
took  his  dismissal  without  further  resistance. 


162 


CHAPTER  XII 

ON   THE   QUADRANGLE 

It  was  about  two  o'clock  of  a  morning  early  in 
October  that  the  watchman  at  Columbia  rubbed  his 
eyes  in  confident  expectation  that  the  action  would 
cause  a  strange  figure  on  the  quadrangle  to  dissolve 
and  vanish.  The  vision  persisted,  however,  and  the 
watchman  drew  near,  with  what  caution  and  misgiv- 
ing it  would  be  unfair  to  say,  for  in  the  precincts  of 
learning  it  is  unlikely  that  superstitious  fear  would 
linger.  What  he  saw  was  a  tall  man  standing  motion- 
less, both  hands  raised  above  his  head,  which  was 
thrown  back,  as  if  he  were  invoking  the  stars,  or  un- 
seen spirits  in  the  air. 

"Mine !  mine !"  the  watchman  heard  the  man  say  in 
a  tone  of  the  deepest  exultation. 

The  man's  back  was  to  the  watchman,  who  stepped 
around  in  front  and  looked  him  over  curiously.  At 
once  the  man  lowered  his  arms,  but  without  the  slight- 
est manifestation  of  discomposure.  The  exultance  that 
had  vibrated  in  his  voice,  shone  like  a  fire  in  the  night 
from  his  eyes,  and  his  lips  were  parted  in  a  smile  of 
unutterable  satisfaction  and  joy.  He  returned  the 
watchman's  look,  and  greeted  him  with  a  cheery  "Good 
morning." 

163 


STRON GHEART 

"Good  morning,"  the  watchman  responded  dubi- 
ously. 

"Did  you  hear  what  I  said?"  asked  the  man,  and 
again  he  raised  his  arms,  but  this  time  in  a  comprehen- 
sive gesture  as  if  he  would  embrace  all  the  buildings 
facing  on  the  quadrangle.  "It's  mine !"  he  continued, 
smiling  again,  "mine!  You  don't  understand  that,  do 
you,  watchman?" 

The  watchman  could  not  reconcile  the  claim  with 
facts,  but  before  he  could  say  so,  the  other  went 
on  impetuously,  "How  would  you  feel  if  a  multi- 
millionaire should  take  you  to  a  beautiful  park  where 
there  was  a  grand  mansion  furnished  with  every  lux- 
ury, and  in  it  a  strong-box  filled  with  gold,  and  should 
tell  you  it  was  all  yours?  You  could  not  believe  it 
true,  not  at  first,  watchman,  but  when  at  last  he  made 
you  believe,  when  you  saw  that  it  must  be  so  because 
you  were  living  there,  with  everything  you  desired  at 
command,  how  would  you  feel  then  ?  You  don't  know, 
do  you?  You  don't  know  how  you  would  feel,  or 
what  you  would  say,  but  you  would  have  to  say  some- 
thing, watchman.  It  is  not  in  the  power  of  any  human 
being  of  any  race  to  shut  himself  up  entirely  in  the 
presence  of  such  vast  fortune.  And  so  I  tell 
you  again,  it's  mine !  mine !  I  shall  take  it  away  with 
me,  all  I  can  carry,  but,"  and  here  his  smile  became 
quizzical,  "I  shall  leave  behind  me  all  that  I  take  away. 
Do  you  understand  that  ?" 

The  watchman  felt  moved  to  express  relief  that  the 
man  cherished  no  rapacious  designs  on  the  buildings, 
but  the  overmastering  passion  of  the  other  restrained 

164 


STRONGHEART 

his  flippancy,  and  he  replied  doubtfully,  "Learnin'  I 
s'pose  you  mean,  aint  it?" 

"Learning,  yes.  Knowledge  and,  I  hope,  wisdom! 
Think  of  it — but  no,  it  would  not  do  you  any  good, 
for  you  could  not  understand.  If  you  could,  I  should 
not  be  talking  to  you.  There's  another  way  of  stating 
it.  Here  am  I,  in  the  midst  of  it,  a  part  of  it ;  it  be- 
longs to  me,  and  I  belong  to  it.  This,  watchman," 
again  the  comprehensive  gesture,  "this  is  where  I 
belong !  Come  now,  is  it  not  past  comprehension  ?  Is 
it  not  wonderful?" 

"1  s'pose,"  said  the  watchman,  slowly,  "it  ain't  to 
be  expected  that  a  man  of  your  race  could  take  it 
all  in." 

The  man's  laughter  awoke  the  echoes  of  the  quad- 
rangle, exuberant,  happy  laughter. 

"Race!  race!"  he  shouted;  "what  glorious  non- 
sense! How  much  of  it  do  you  take  in,  watchman? 
You've  been  here  for  years,  haven't  you?  Tell  me 
how  much  you  have  taken  from  that  ?"  pointing  to  the 
library,  "and  from  that?"  indicating  University  Hall, 
"and  the  rest  of  them?  So  much  a  week,  is  it  not? 
Ho!  ho!  the  sublime  conceit  of  the  superior  race! 
Mind  you,  watchman,  I  should  not  say  this  if  I  thought 
you  could  understand  it,  for  it  would  profane  my  mood 
to  say  aught  that  could  pain  or  offend  another.  I  do 
not  expect  you  to  understand.  Can  you  translate  the 
message  of  the  birds  that  sing  when  your  night's  work 
is  over  ?  Can  you  put  the  starshine  into  words  ?  Can 
you  tell  what  the  wind  whispers  to  these  roofs  and 
walls?" 

165 


STRONGHEART 

"Don't  you  think  you'd  better  be  going  to  your  room, 
sir  ?"  suggested  the  watchman,  at  the  first  pause  in  the 
rhapsody. 

Again  that  ringing,  hearty,  happy  laughter.  "Splen- 
did !"  cried  the  man.  "I  have  freed  my  spirit  to  an 
ear  that  listened  and  understood  not  a  word!  What 
luxury !  Yes,  watchman,  you  are  quite  right.  I  should 
go  to  my  room.  You  must  think  well  of  me,  friend. 
I  have  given  you  something  to  cheer  many  a  lonesome 
night  with  strange  memories,  haven't  I?  Come,  you 
smoke,  of  course.  Try  this.  Good  night,  watchman." 

The  man  dashed  away  at  a  run,  his  steps  almost 
noiseless  on  the  paved  ground.  The  watchman  looked 
confusedly  at  the  cigar  that  had  been  thrust  into  his 
hand,  turned  it  over  several  times,  at  last  put  it  into 
his  pocket  and  returned  to  his  station  where  for  some 
minutes  he  sat  in  deep  thought,  occasionally  tapping 
his  head,  and  wagging  that  useful  but  not  over- 
enlightened  member,  mournfully. 


166 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE    NOCTURNE    IN   G   MAJOR 

Strongheart's  advent  to  Columbia  was  like  that  of 
any  other  earnest  student.  He  took  the  examinations 
with  no  other  ambition  with  regard  to  them  than  that 
they  should  determine  his  proper  place  in  the  student 
body,  glad  to  review  subjects  in  which  he  was  deficient, 
glad  also  to  pass  in  others  and  therefore  gain  the 
privilege  of  beginning  new  or  higher  subjects.  Gen- 
erally speaking,  his  presence  was  little  marked  at  first, 
each  of  the  many  members  of  the  university  having 
his  special  interests  to  absorb  his  attention,  the  upper- 
classmen  having  associations  already  formed  that  made 
them  unobservant  of  strangers,  and  the  newcomers  be- 
ing adrift  until  accident  and  the  discoveries  of  con- 
geniality should  enable  them  to  form  associations  of 
their  own.  As  a  newcomer,  Strongheart  was  excep- 
tionally favored  in  having  the  ardent  friendship  of 
two  popular  upper-classmen,  Nelson  and  Livingston 
both  being  proud  to  introduce  him  to  their  friends,  to 
whom  the  Indian  quickly  appealed  on  his  own  merits, 
for  he  was  always  in  quiet  good-humor,  earnest  with- 
out being  aggressive,  interested  in  all  that  was  brought 
to  his  attention.  As  Billy  Saunders  put  it,  "You  forget 
that  he's  a  redskin  as  soon  as  you've  said  'how  ?'  " 

167 


STRON G HE  ART 

Little  time  was  allowed  to  elapse  before  Strong- 
heart's  discoverers  presented  him  to  their  friends  out- 
side of  the  university.  His  first  meeting  with  Doro- 
thy, of  whom  he  had  not  heard  until  he  came  to  New 
York,  was  at  her  home,  where  he  was  the  guest  of 
honor,  if  one  may  use  so  pompous  a  phrase  in  con- 
nection with  a  small  and  informal  dinner  party.  Nel- 
son and  Livingston  bad-thought  it  all  out  during  their 
last  day  in  the  wilderness  when,  after  having  visited 
the  lake  which  had  been  their  first  objective,  they  spent 
a  night  at  the  reservation,  to  which  Kiwetin  and  his 
people  had  returned.  Both  looked  forward  to  the 
home  affair  with  eager  anticipation  such  as  any  can 
imagine  who  have  ever  found  a  treasure  which  they 
are  sure  all  their  friends  will  appreciate. 

"Seems  as  if  I  couldn't  wait  to  spring  him  on  the 
crowd,"  Livingston  had  said,  and  Nelson,  less  im- 
pulsive, but  equally  enthusiastic,  had  replied  that  for 
Strongheart's  sake  it  would  be  well  to  wait  a  bit  after 
his  arrival  in  the  city.  "Let  him  get  shaken  down  into 
his  new  surroundings,"  said  he,  wisely. 

"I  suppose  so,"  Livingston  admitted  ruefully.  "It'll 
have  to  be  at  your  house,  of  course." 

"Rather!"  returned  Nelson.  "You  can't  expect  us 
all  to  go  up  to  Albany  just  because  Strongheart  is 
your  particular  catch." 

"Molly  must  be  there." 

"Sure.  She'll  balance  Strongheart,  though,  if  we 
have  Molly,  we  must  also  have  Billy,  mustn't  we?" 

"I'd  like  to  have  the  whole  football  team  so  far  as 
numbers  are  concerned,  but  of  course  I  don't  say  that 

168 


STRONGHEART 

seriously.  We  want  this  a  kind  of  family  gathering. 
Billy?  Billy  Saunders?  Yes,  I  s'pose  so.  Billy's  all 
right.  You're  thinking  that  he's  rather  fond  of  Molly, 
aren't  you?" 

"Well,"  said  Nelson,  dryly,  "some  folks  remarked 
that  he  couldn't  keep  his  eyes  off  Molly  whenever  she 
was  visible  last  term." 

Molly  was  Livingston's  sister,  *also  a  student  in  New 
York.  During  the  preceding  Winter  she  had  been  in 
attendance  at  the  National  Academy  of -Design,  where 
she  covered  some  acres  of  white  paper  with  black  li~es 
representing  Roman  heads  and  Greek  limbs.  She 
called  them  studies  in  the  antique,  and  her  one  ambi- 
tion, despite  the  persistent  attentions  of  Mr.  William 
Saunders,  and  no  end  of  other  good  fellows,  was  to 
get  into  the  life  class. 

"Terrible  thing,  this  having  a  younger  sister  to  feel 
responsible  for,"  said  Livingston.  "I  don't  know 
whether  Molly  cares  a  rap  for  Billy,  but  if  she  did  I 
think  I  should  feel  relieved.  He's  a  good  fellow,  all 
right,  if  he  doesn't  lead  his  class  in  mathematics. 
Billy,  of  course.  He'll  balance  Dorothy,  I  s'pose. 
That  means  we  must  have  two  other  girls  to  balance 
we-uns." 

"Well,  there's  Betty  Bates  and  Maud  Weston,  from 
the  Art  School.  They're  thick  with  Molly,  and  prob- 
ably you'd  not  find  anybody  more  interested  in  an  In- 
dian than  art  students." 

The  plain  fact  was  that  the  make-up  of  the  party 
was  a  matter  of  supreme  indifference  to  Livingston, 
once  it  was  established  that  Dorothy  and  his  sister  were 

169 


STRONGHEART 

to  be  present.  Observe  that  his  own  sister  did  count ; 
he  had  mentioned  her  first,  and,  in  further  evidence 
of  his  brotherly  interest  let  it  be  recorded  that  he  had 
written  her  one  letter  during  his  absence  in  the  wil- 
derness, and  sent  her  a  picture  postcard  from  every 
stopping  place  where  such  necessities  of  modern  travel 
were  to  be  found. 

So  Livingston  said,  "All  right,  Betty  and  Maud  it  is. 
They're  the  right  sort.  Snail  we  let  it  go  at  that?" 

"No  more?" 

"Well,  it  isn't  my  house,  and  if  it  were,  Frank,  I 
honestly  think  that,  for  the  first  occasion,  we'd  all  have 
a  better  time  if  we  kept  the  numbers  down.  Not  for 
the  sake  of  being  select,  you  understand,  but  for  con- 
centrating the  joy,  so  to  speak." 

Thus  it  was  decided,  and  such  was  the  personnel  of 
the  first  social  gathering  Strongheart  attended,  with 
the  addition  of  Mrs.  Nelson,  Frank's  mother. 

The  girls  were  all  of  a  flutter  over  the  event;  that 
is,  the  contingent  from  the  art  school.  Livingston 
conveyed  the  invitation  to  them  in  person,  for  he  could 
not  forego  the  enjoyment  of  seeing  their  manifesta- 
tions of  interest  which  could  not  have  been  more 
spontaneous  and  effusive  if  he  had  been  the  discoverer 
of  the  North  Pole  and  were  about  to  set  that  rare 
object  before  them.  Not  one  of  them  had  ever  seen 
an  Indian  outside  the  Sportsman's  Show  at  Madison 
Square  Garden,  or  in  the  life  classroom  into  which 
they  took  occasional  surreptitious  glimpses.  To  have 
one  all  to  themselves  was  more  than  a  joy,  it  was  a 
distinction. 

170 


STRONGHEART 

"Will  he  be  in  full  regalia?"  asked  Molly. 

"He  will  have  all  his  clothes  on,"  her  brother  an- 
swered soberly. 

"I  should  hope  so!"  indignantly,  "but  I  mean,  will 
he  wear  the  clothes  of  civilization,  or  the  picturesque 
garments  of  his  race?  Does  he  paint  his  face  when 
he  goes  to  a  function  ?  Oh !  do  you  suppose  he  would 
pose  for  me?" 

"Don't  be  silly,  sis,"  said  her  brother ;  "Strongheart 
is  a  gentleman.  See  here,  look  at  him,"  and  he  dis- 
played one  of  Nelson's  numerous  snap  shots. 

The  girls  crowded  around  the  discoverer,  and  im- 
mediately there  were  exclamations  of  unaffected  aston- 
ishment and  admiration. 

"Is  it  possible  that  this  is  an  Indian  ?"  gasped  Molly. 

"He  doesn't  look  a  bit  like  a  savage,"  said  Maud. 

"Why!  it's  a  beautiful  face,"  said  Betty,  holding 
her  breath  in  very  awe. 

Livingston  was  abundantly  satisfied.  "Friday  even- 
ing," said  he,  pocketing  the  picture  in  spite  of  their 
frantic  demands  for  another  look. 

Dorothy  was  no  less  interested  than  the  art  school 
girls,  but  in  another  way.  "I  should  think,"  she  said, 
when  the  chattering  trio  arrived  at  her  home  ahead  of 
the  young  men,  "that  Strongheart  would  appeal  to 
you  less  as  a  curiosity  than  as  a  man  worthy  of  the 
profoundest  respect  owing  to  the  great  purpose  of  his 
life.  Think  of  devoting  one's  self  to  the  uplifting  of 
an  entire  people !" 

"Dear  me !"  exclaimed  Molly,  aghast,  "is  that  what 
he  is?  I  thought  he  was  just  a  student,  like  the  rest 

171 


STRONGHEART 

of  the  boys,  only  a  real  savage  instead  of  the  imitation 
article.  Dick  never  said  anything  about  his  having  a 
purpose  in  life.  It  robs  him  of  half  his  interest.  I 
declare!  if  I  can't  think  of  him  as  an  Indian,  I'd 
rather  go  back  to  my  antiques." 

Dorothy  laughed  and  twined  her  arm  affectionately 
about  Molly's  waist.  "Come,  Miss  Chatterbox,"  said 
she,  "does  anybody  go  to  the  National  Academy  who 
hasn't  a  purpose — " 

"Bless  me!   yes,  lots  of  them." 

"But  not  you,  surely.    Why  are  you  there  ?" 

Molly  struck  an  attitude  and  answered  with  rapt 
gaze,  "Art,  with  a  capital  A." 

"Very  well,"  said  Dorothy,  "are  you  any  the  less 
interesting  for  that?" 

"Certainly  not,  Dorothy.  On  the  contrary,  my 
value,  speaking  of  course  from  the  viewpoint  of 
desirable  young  men,  is  enhanced  by  my  appar- 
ent unattainability,  for  I  stand  aloof  from  all 
frivolity — " 

The  end  of  the  speech,  if  any  were  intended,  was 
lost  in  a  peal  of  laughter  at  the  inconceivable  picture 
of  a  non-frivolous  Molly  Livingston. 

"But  about  Strongheart,"  she  insisted,  "is  he  so 
absorbed  in  his  devotion  to  a  whole  people  as  to  over- 
look the  existence  of  individuals?" 

"I  think  not,"  said  Dorothy,  "but  I  have  yet  to  see, 
as  well  as  you.  I  simply  know  that  his  coming  to 
Columbia  is  due  to  the  need  of  his  people  for  enlight- 
enment. He  will  one  day  be  chief,  and  he  wishes  to 
fit  himself  to  lead  his  people  upward  now  that  their 

172 


STRONGHEART 

conditions  are  changed,  and  the  old,  simple  forest  lifi 
is  no  longer  possible." 

"A  future  chief !"  exclaimed  Betty.  "It's  like  enter- 
taining a  prince,  isn't  it?" 

"Grand!"  said  Maud. 

"I've  wondered  whether  he  understands  the  use  of  a 
knife  and  fork,"  said  the  irrepressible  Molly. 

"Oh !  don't  mention  knives !"  cried  Maud.  "I've 
had  such  perfectly  delicious  thrills  when  I've  thought 
of  the  possibility  that  his  savage  instincts  might  be 
aroused  in  the  dining-room.  I've  been  scared  half  to 
death  about  it,  and  now  I'm  scared  the  other  half 
because  he  threatens  to  bring  with  him  the  ponderous 
peace  of  a  bishop." 

"I  sha'n't  know  what  to  say  to  him,"  said  Betty, 
whose  blue  eyes  viewed  everything,  animate  and  in- 
animate, with  placid  bewilderment.  What  Betty  was 
in  the  art  school  for,  nobody  knew,  she  least  of  all. 
A  person  who  was  not  devoted  to  Art-with-a-capital-A 
might  have  guessed  that  it  was  to  beautify  and  purify 
everything  she  came  in  contact  with.  You  couldn't 
look  at  her  drawing  of  a  rugged  Roman  senator  and 
fail  to  see  that  his  sculptured  eyes  would  have  been 
baby  blue  if  the  marble  bust  had  been  colored  in  har- 
mony with  Betty's  copy.  Her  Venus  di  Milo  was 
positively  a  pretty  girl  just  on  the  verge  of  dousing 
her  blue  eyes  in  tears  over  the  loss  of  her  arms. 
Blessed  be  Betty !  type  of  her  who  never  will  be  any- 
thing but  woman  whether  she  strives  in  Art,  or  stuffs 
her  head  with  Greek  roots,  or  gives  faithful  attendance 
at  the  Browning  Club. 

173 


STRONGHEART 

If  Strongheart  had  known  the  nature  of  the  antici- 
pations with  which  his  coming  was  honored,  he  might 
well  have  shrunk  from  the  ordeal,  and  yet,  when  at 
length  the  real  Indian  stood  before  them,  dignified  but 
agreeable,  apparently  perfectly  at  ease,  he  faced  young 
ladies  whose  demure  conduct  masked  their  giddiness, 
and  gave  no  hint  of  the  curiosity  that  stirred  wildly 
within  them.  Only  one  thing  occurred  to  distinguish 
the  introduction  of  the  Indian  to  the  ladies  from  such 
a  ceremony  as  would  have  taken  place  had  the  subject 
been  an  ordinary  white  friend  of  the  students,  and  the 
exception,  appropriately  enough,  was  due  to  Molly. 
She  gave  the  big,  dark  man  her  hand  with  unaffected 
and  unreserved  cordiality,  and  said,  "I  am  awfully  glad 
to  meet  you,  Mr.  Strongheart,  for  I  have  wanted  to 
thank  you  for  saving  my  brother's  life." 

"I  thought  he  was  worth  saving  at  the  time," 
Strongheart  responded,  "and  now  I  know  it." 

Molly  dropped  him  a  comical  courtesy  in  acknowl- 
edgment of  the  subtle  compliment  which  was  conveyed 
more  by  the  Indian's  smiling  eyes  than  by  his  words. 

There  are  here  and  there  past  mistresses  of  social 
diplomacy  who  have  the  knack  of  greeting  a  stranger 
in  such  a  way  that  his  pride  is  delicately  flattered  with- 
out being  so  exalted  as  to  make  him  self-conscious ; 
he  is  made  to  know  that  he  is  welcome,  and  that  some- 
thing in  his  character  or  career  distinguishes  him  as 
one  especially  esteemed,  but  just  what  his  distinction 
is,  he  is  left  to  wonder  with  a  pleased  sense  of  his 
importance  in  the  lady's  eyes ;  which  is  to  say  that  he 
is  captured,  foot,  horse  and  artillery,  not  merely  ready 

174 


STRONGHEART 

to  lay  down  his  arms,  but  already  surrendered  at  dis- 
cretion and  gladly  awaiting  the  pleasure  of  his  captor ; 
in  still  other  words,  he  becomes  suddenly  conscious  of 
his  good  fortune  in  making  this  lady's  acquaintance, 
and  therefore  is  put  in  the  very  best  mood  for  dis- 
playing his  own  social  attractions.  Such  a  hostess  was 
Mrs.  Nelson,  and  her  daughter,  with  her  utterly  con- 
ventional words  of  greeting,  was  a  good  second.  Maud 
manifested  fear  neither  of  savage  nor  bishop  when  it 
came  her  turn  to  shake  hands  with  the  stranger,  but 
bewildered  Betty,  conscious  only  that  she  was  address- 
ing an  alien  to  whom  she  must  say  something,  looked 
awesomely  up  at  the  big  man  and  stammered,  "How 
do  you  do?  I — I've  heard  so  much  about  you — er — 
How  do  you  like  America?" 

"My  people  have  always  been  fond  of  the  place," 
Strongheart  answered  with  the  utmost  seriousness. 

Student  folk  are  not  famous  for  their  consideration 
of  others'  feelings,  and  poor  Betty  was  overwhelmed 
with  confusion  at  the  laughter  that  followed.  "I  guess 
you've  forgotten,"  shrieked  Molly,  "that  he's  more 
American  than  you  are." 

"Why,  yes!     I'm  so  stupid,"  said  Betty,  contritely. 

"Not  at  all,"  Strongheart  protested.  "There  are  two 
kinds  of  America,  are  there  not?  Your  kind,  with 
its  old-world  ways,  and  mine  with  its  ways  of  prehis- 
toric time.  You  asked,  of  course,  how  I  liked  the 
America  with  which  you  are  familiar,  and  if  I  had 
not  been  stupid  I  should  have  told  you  that  I  like 
very  much  what  I  have  seen  of  it,  Miss  Bates." 

Betty's  expression  of  gratitude  for  the  Indian's  mag- 
175 


STRONGHEART 

nanimity  in  thus  coming  to  her  rescue  was  so  ingetwr 
ous  that  not  the  most  inconsiderate  student  could  have 
laughed  again,  and  the  episode  was  quickly  forgotten. 
Introductions  once  accomplished,  the  talk  ran  for 
awhile  on  everything  except  topics  in  which  an  Indian 
might  be  supposed  to  have  a  special  interest.  Nelson 
and  Livingston  talked  of  college  matters,  football 
mainly,  the  girls  contributing  an  intelligent  and  enthu- 
siastic share  to  the  discussion  of  the  latter  subject  in 
which  Billy  Saunders  ought  to  have  shone,  for  he  was 
a  tower  of  strength  on  the  team,  and  tradition  had  it 
that  he  endured  the  drudgery  of  an  academic  career 
solely  for  the  compensation  of  playing  the  game ;  but 
Billy  was  dismally  handicapped  by  the  presence  of 
Molly,  for  he  was  in  that  adoring  and  adorable  con- 
dition into  which  a  sturdy  young  man  falls  when  he 
is  blindly  in  love  and  thinks  he  has  concealed  the  fact 
from  everybody  including  the  girl  in  the  case.  So 
big  Billy  was  as  silent  as  big  Strongheart,  who  never 
volunteered  a  remark,  but  answered  with  entire  readi- 
ness whenever  a  question  was  addressed  to  him. 

It  was  not  altogether  the  exuberant,  unconscious 
selfishness  of  youth,  which  so  often  leads  young  people 
to  direct  conversation  to  the  exclusion  of  all  subjects 
in  which  their  patient  elders  might  participate,  that 
induced  Nelson  and  Livingston  to  keep  the  talk  away 
from  anything  that  might  be  regarded  as  drawing  out 
Strongheart.  There  was  really  some  measure  of  de- 
liberation in  it,  for  each  feared  that  the  Indian  might 
be  embarrassed,  and  each  knew  that  it  is  not  easy  for 
an  Indian  to  converse  freely  with  strangers.  In  the>r 

176 


STRONGHEART 

way  they  were  helping  him  to  get  used  to  the  atmos- 
phere, and  yet,  when  he  did  speak,  there  was  no  indi- 
cation that  he  needed  the  help.  It  became  Mrs.  Nel- 
son's duty  to  give  the  Indian  the  intimation  that  he 
also  was  one  of  the  party,  and  not  merely  a  spectator. 

"Are  your  first  impressions  of  Columbia  pleasant?" 
she  asked,  at  a  convenient  break  in  the  football  gabble. 

"I  think  there  are  no  words,  madam,  in  my  language 
or  yours,"  he  replied,  "that  could  say  how  pleasant. 
It  is  a  beautiful  dream,  thus  far,  and  my  only  un- 
pleasant feeling  is  fear  lest  I  wake  from  it." 

It  might  have  embarrassed  a  veteran  society  man  to 
note  how  the  girls  became  silent  and  fixed  their  eyes 
intently  on  Strongheart  when  he  spoke,  but  he  was  un- 
disturbed, presumably  unaware  of  their  rapt  attention. 

"I  sometimes  wish  I  could  awake  from  a  dream  in 
New  York  and  find  myself  in  the  woods,"  said  Molly. 

Strongheart  smiled  agreeably  at  her,  but  made  no 
verbal  response. 

"Ha!"  said  Livingston,  "I  was  in  for  a  dream  in 
the  woods  from  which  I  shouldn't  have  waked  at  all 
if  it  hadn't  been  for  Strongheart." 

"I've  never  been  clear  about  that,"  said  Mrs.  Nel- 
son. "We  quite  understand  that  we  owe  it  to  you  that 
we  still  have  Richard  with  us,  but  how  did  it  come 
about?" 

Strongheart  hesitated,  glanced  at  Livingston,  who 
was  not  disposed  to  help  him,  and  replied,  "Why,  I 
hardly  know  myself.  I  saw  him  in  the  water,  and  as 
he  did  not  seem  to  be  able  to  get  out  by  himself,  I 
helped  him.  That  was  all." 

177 


STRONGHEART 

"That's  all  right,  girls,"  said  Livingston,  "but  it 
doesn't  suggest  Strongheart's  ability  as  a  swimmer. 
I'm  not  crediting  him  with  courage,  for  I  suppose  the 
act  didn't  require  any,  but,  with  all  his  clothes  on, 
he  must  have  had  to  swim  some,  for  I  couldn't  help 
myself.  Didn't  know  anything  about  it  till  he  had 
me  lying,  all  comfy,  by  a  fare." 

"Strongheart  built  the  fire  first,  and  then  pulled  Dick 
out,"  explained  Nelson,  gravely,  whereat  there  was 
mild  laughter. 

"I  suppose  you  are  quite  a*  home  in  the  water?" 
suggested  Mrs.  Nelson. 

"I  cannot  remember  when  I  could  not  swim," 
Strongheart  answered. 

All  through  the  dinner,  Molly  held  herself  in  check, 
but  when  it  was  over,  and  before  music,  or  any  gen- 
eral form  of  entertainment  had  been  suggested,  she 
yielded  to  her  ravenous  desire  for  information  and 
opened  up  on  Strongheart  with,  "Please,  Mr.  Strong- 
heart,  you  must  excuse  me,  but  I'm  just  dying  to  ask 
you  a  thousand  questions.  Do  you  mind?" 

"Not  at  all,"  he  replied,  and  there  was  unmis- 
takable amusement  in  his  smile.  "It  is  only  a 
matter  of  time.  We  might  go  on  the  instalment  plan, 
if  you  like." 

"Good!  Then  tell  me,  you  must  pardon  my  ignor- 
ance, which  is  proper,  Mr.  Strongheart,  or  Mr.  So- 
angetaha?  That's  your  real  and  truly  name,  isn't  it?" 

If  he  had  been  any  but  an  Indian,  one  might  have 
suspected  that  he  was  having  difficulty  in  suppressing 
outright  laughter. 

178 


STRONGHEART 

"Neither  is  strictly  proper,  Miss  Livingston,"  said 
he,  "from  the  Ojibway  point  of  view.  We  don't  mis- 
ter anybody,  you  know." 

"Well,  but  you  don't  expect  us  to  omit  the  mister, 
do  you?" 

"Certainly  not,  if  you  regard  me  as  something  very 
terrible." 

"Oh !  but  I  don't." 

"Then  omit  it.  I  shall  feel  that  we  are  on  good 
terms  if  you  do." 

"I'll  do  it!  But  which  shall  it  be?  Strongheart,  or 
Soangetaha  ?" 

"It  doesn't  matter.    They  mean  the  same." 

"But  haven't  you  any  other  name?  A  given  name, 
like  Dick,  or  Frank,  or — anything?" 

What  a  grateful  ray  might  have  fallen  upon  the 
heart  of  Mr.  Saunders  if  she  had  added,  "or  like 
Billy?"  But  she  denied  him  that  trifling  solace,  poor 
devil ! 

"Yes,  indeed,"  Strongheart  answered.  "I  think 
there  were  a  dozen  or  so  at  the  last  count." 

Molly's  eyes  opened  wide.  "How  ever  can  you  re- 
member them?"  she  asked. 

"I  do  not  try  to.  One  name  is  quite  enough.  The 
others  are  never  used.  You  see,  the  O  jib  ways  name 
their  children  from  circumstances  attending  their  birth, 
or  that  occur  early  in  life,  and,  as  the  years  pass,  if  a 
child's  life  is  eventful,  a  good  many  names  are  given 
to  signalize  the  different  events.  After  a  time  one  of 
these  names  becomes  fixed  by  general  usage;  often  it 
is  a  matter  of  accident,  or  a  freak  in  popular  taste 

179 


STRONGHEART 

which  one,  and  thereafter  the  man  or  woman  is  known 
by  that  one  name." 

"I  see,"  said  Molly,  "and  that  verifies  what  I  was 
told  by  somebody,  or  what  I  read  somewhere,  that  all 
Indian  names  have  a  significance,  an  appropriateness 
that  is  generally  lacking  in  the  names  of  civ — I 
mean — " 

"No,"  Strongheart  interrupted  with  a  hearty  laugh, 
"you  mean  civilized.  Go  on." 

Molly's  cheeks  were  on  fire. 

"Oh !  what  a  break !"  howled  Livingston,  in  broth- 
erly delight  at  her  confusion. 

"Dick!"  cried  Molly,  almost  in  tears,  "you  know  I 
didn't  mean — Mr. — I  mean,  Strongheart,  I  assure  you 
I  didn't  intend  to  draw  any  ungracious  distinction. 
Honest,  I  didn't  think  of  you  for  an  instant  as  any  but 
one  of  ourselves." 

"I  am  sure  of  that,"  he  responded  gravely,  "and  I 
thank  you  for  the  attitude.  It  is  perfectly  true,  how- 
ever, that  my  people  are  not  civilized,  and  I  should  be 
very  foolish  if  I  tried  to  blink  the  fact." 

"It  is  what  accounts  for  your  being  one  of  us,  isn't 
it?"  suggested  Dorothy. 

The  Indian  turned  and  looked  straight  at  her,  and 
a  perceptible  pause  ensued  before  he  replied,  "Yes, 
Miss  Nelson,  yes,  that  is  quite  true." 

"You  must  steel  yourself  against  sensitiveness,  I 
fear,"  said  Mrs.  Nelson.  "We  whites  are  likely  to 
make  many  an  unwitting  allusion  in  your  presence  that 
we  would  not  make  if  you  were  not  so  unquestionably 
on  our  level  as  to  make  us  forgetful." 

190 


STRONGHEART 

"I  think  I  am  deaf  to  such  allusions,  madam." 

"There  was  a  time  when  you  weren't,  though,"  said 
Livingston.  "I  made  break  after  break  during  the  first 
hours  of  our  acquaintance,  and  suffered  abominably 
when  I  recognized  them.  At  that  time  I  thought  you 
were  sensitive,  old  chap." 

"I  was.  I  did  not  know  you.  I  was  guilty  of  the 
weakness  of  my  race  in  being  suspicious  of  all  whites. 
I  had  to  become  convinced  of  your  absolute  sincerity, 
and  you  must  admit  it  did  not  take  long." 

"Right  you  are.  Cheer  up,  Molly.  Your  big  brother 
said  lots  of  fool  things  before  he  learned  better,  but 
Strongheart  is  a  forgiving  creature,  and  you  have  the 
advantage  of  being  sponsored — " 

"Bother,  Dick!  Do  be  quiet.  Anyhow,  I'm  going 
on  with  my  inquisition.  May  I  ?" 

"I  should  be  sorry  if  you  did  not,  Miss  Livingston," 
Strongheart  answered. 

"Well,  what  I  was  trying  to  come  to  was  this :  what 
is  the  special  significance,  or  appropriateness  of  your 
name  ?" 

The  Indian  had  then  his  first  moment  of  palpable 
embarrassment.  "Oh,"  he  replied  hesitatingly,  "I  be- 
lieve it  was  some  fancy  of  an  uncle  who  was  good 
enough  to  be  fond  of  me  when  I  was  a  little  fellow." 

"Dodged!"  cried  Nelson.  "That  doesn't  go  at  all, 
Strongheart.  The  girls  want  the  story,  and  they  shall 
have  it." 

"No,  if  you  please,"  Strongheart  stammered,  "I'd 
much  rather  not.  It's  only  a  bit  of  village  gossip — " 

"That's  all  right,  I'll  be  the  gossip.  You're  fam- 
181 


STRONGH EART 

ished  for  a  smoke,  I  know.  Come,  Dick,  take  Strong- 
heart  into  the  library  and  give  him  a  cigar." 

"Come  on,  Strongheart,"  said  Livingston,  with  alac- 
rity. 

The  Indian  resisted.  "On  my  word,"  said  he,  "I 
had  much  rather  stay  here  than  smoke." 

"Can't  be  helped.  Choice  of  evils,  old  chap.  It's 
smoke  in  the  library,  or  stay  here  and  roast  through 
Frank's  narration.  Take  hold  of  him,  Billy,  and  rush 
him  in." 

Strongheart  put  a  good  face  on  the  matter  and 
arose.  "Ladies,"  he  said,  "I  am  the  captive  of  the 
paleface  and  must  submit  to  the  torture  of  absenting 
myself." 

Billy  Saunders  glanced  appealingly  at  Molly,  but 
her  fascinated  gaze  was  fixed  on  Strongheart,  so,  with 
deep  melancholy  clouding  his  heart,  he  followed  Liv- 
ingston and  the  Indian  to  the  library.  Nelson  laughed 
lightly  when  they  had  gone. 

"Strongheart  never  could  have  been  induced  to  tell 
the  story,"  said  he,  "and  it  would  have  been  exquisite 
torture  to  him  to  sit  here  and  hear  me  tell  it.  I  had 
it  from  Black  Eagle,  for  I  asked  the  same  question 
Molly  did,  and  when  I  could  get  no  satisfaction  from 
Strongheart  himself,  I  worried  the  other  Indians  till 
I  found  one  who  could  speak  English  intelligibly  and 
was  willing  to  talk  to  me.  So  far  as  I  could  make  out, 
our  friend  was  about  ten  years  old  at  the  time  he  got 
the  name  that  has  stuck  to  him.  It  was  while  the  tribe 
was  summering  at  the  same  place  where  we  found 
them  last  July.  Strongheart  was  then  staggering  un- 

182 


STRONGMEART 

der  the  preposterous  name  of  Tetebahbundung,  which 
means  judge,  and  which  was  applied  to  him  somewhat 
in  jest  on  account  of  his  ability  to  settle  the  quarrels 
of  his  playmates.  He  and  his  little  sister  went  out 
berrying  together  one  morning.  She  was  then  about 
five  years  old,  I  think.  They  knew  the  trails  there- 
about quite  as  well  as  did  their  elders,  and  nobody  felt 
any  anxiety  when  they  didn't  return  to  the  village  by 
midday,  but  there  was  some  little  wonderment  when  it 
came  to  be  about  three  o'clock  and  there  was  no  sign 
of  them.  So  the  uncle  our  friend  spoke  of  hit  the 
trail  to  see  what  had  become  of  the  kids.  The  matter, 
even  then,  you  see,  didn't  appeal  to  the  Indians  as 
serious  enough  to  justify  a  general  searching  party. 

"Well,  the  uncle  had  got  some  distance  from  the 
village  when  he  met  Gezhikway,  the  little  sister,  hurry- 
ing home  so  frightened  she  could  hardly  speak.  In 
fact,  the  only  word  she  could  say  was  'mukwa,'  which 
means,  bear.  At  that  the  uncle  bade  the  child  run  to 
the  village  as  fast  as  she  could  and  tell  the  others  to 
bring  guns,  while  he  hustled  along  the  trail  at  full 
speed.  He  came  by  and  by  to  a  tolerably  wide 
stream  across  which  was  a  fallen  tree  that  Had  been 
trimmed  of  its  branches,  and  so  served  as  a  bridge. 
The  boy  was  on  the  bridge,  about  a  third  of  the  way 
across,  standing  still  with  his  fists  doubled  up,  and  his 
face  turned  toward  the  opposite  shore.  Confronting 
him  on  the  bridge,  and  about  a  third  of  the  way 
across,  so  that  there  was  some  fifteen  feet  between 
them,  was  a  bear,  seated  on  its  haunches,  looking  at 
the  lad  out  of  his  little  beads  of  eyes." 

183 


STRONGHEART 

When  this  point  in  the  narration  had  been  greeted 
with  exclamations  of  astonishment  by  the  ladies,  Nei- 
son  continued,  "You  see,  the  boy  and  girl  had  done 
more  playing  than  berrying.  They  hadn't  got  lost, 
hardly.  You  can't  imagine  an  Ojibway  kid  getting 
lost  in  the  woods.  No,  they  simply  wandered  about, 
heedless  of  time,  until,  when  they  started  to  return, 
they  were  pretty  far  from  home.  They  had  come  near 
the  fallen  tree  over  the  stream  when  they  were  startled 
by  a  bear  that  came  across  an  open  space  toward  them. 
When  Black  Eagle  told  the  story,  he  enlarged  con- 
siderably on  the  fright  of  the  children,  but  it  seemed  to 
me  he  must  have  worked  that  up  as  a  feature  of  the 
story-teller's  art,  for  how  could  he  know  ?  Gezhikway 
may  have  been  frightened,  and  the  boy,  too,  for  all  that 
I  know,  but  what  happened  was  this :  The  boy  took 
his  sister's  hand  and  ran  as  fast  as  she  could  go  to 
the  fallen  tree;  then  he  took  her  up  and  crossed  with 
her  in  his  arms.  Arrived  at  the  other  side,  he  put 
her  down  and  looked  back.  There  was  the  big  beast 
just  stepping  onto  the  bridge  at  the  opposite  end !  The 
boy  immediately  stepped  back  on  the  log,  calling  to 
his  sister  to  run  home  as  fast  as  she  could,  and  strode 
toward  the  bear,  ready  to  fight  him  bare-handed,  so  as 
to  give  Gezhikway  time  to  escape. 

"You  see,  Mr.  Bear  had  business  on  the  other  side 
of  the  stream,  and  he  preferred  crossing  on  the  log 
to  swimming,  for  the  current  there  was  fearfully  swift, 
and  dangerous  on  account  of  rocks  that  rose  almost  to 
the  surface.  But  when  Mr.  Bear  saw  that  mite  of 
humanity  approaching  and  threatening,  he  evidently 

184 


STRONGHEART 

perceived  that  it  was  a  matter  for  prudent  reflection, 
for  he  halted  right  where  he  was,  about  a  third  of 
the  way  over,  opened  his  jaws  in  a  yawning  kind  of 
way,  and  tried  to  stare  the  boy  out  of  countenance. 
That  latter  is  my  inference,  girls.  Not  even  Black 
Eagle  invented  that,  but  I  think  it  a  fair  inference,  for 
the  circumstances  show  that  in  fact  the  bear  didn't 
have  manslaughter  in  his  heart.  He  simply  wanted 
to  cross  the  river,  quite  likely  to  go  to  some  favorite 
blackberry  bushes,  and  the  aggressive  small  boy  was 
in  the  way.  And  the  boy,  seeing  the  bear  halt,  halted 
too,  for  the  purpose  of  his  whole  desperate  proceed- 
ing was  to  gain  time,  and  if  that  could  be  accomplished 
without  an  immediate  fight,  so  much  the  better  for 
Gezhikway. 

"Well,  that's  the  tableau.  A  barefooted,  empty- 
handed,  strong-hearted  boy  facing  an  obstinate,  pig- 
headed bear  which  knew  just  enough  to  perceive  that 
he  couldn't  cross  while  the  human  obstacle  was  in  the 
way.  Once,  the  boy  said  afterward,  the  bear  got  on 
his  feet,  licked  his  chops,  and  made  as  if  he  would 
proceed,  whereupon  the  boy,  with  the  peril  of  his  sister 
still  in  mind,  shook  his  fists,  yelled  something  in  classic 
O  jib  way,  and  made  as  if  he  meant  to  charge;  and  the 
bear  sat  down  again.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  such  stu- 
pid obstinacy  as  that  beast  displayed  ?" 

"I  never  heard  of  such  nerve  as  that  boy  displayed !" 
cried  Molly. 

"Perfectly  dreadful !"  gasped  Betty. 

"I  don't  wonder  they  called  him  Strongheart,"  Doro- 
thy said. 

185 


STRONGHEART 

"That's  just  it,"  said  her  brother.  "Looking  back  at 
it,  the  old  people  saw  that  the  bear  had  no  designs 
whatever  on  the  children.  In  fact,  the  Ojibways  say 
that  a  bear  won't  fight  unless  attacked.  He  simply 
wants  to  be  let  alone,  which  was  particularly  the  case 
in  this  instance,  but  the  boy  didn't  know.  It  was  his 
belief  that  if  once  he  turned  his  back  and  ran,  the 
bear  would  become  aggressive,  pursue,  and  kill  him, 
and  he  wouldn't  give  the  beast  such  a  chance  till  he 
was  sure  his  little  sister  was  at  a  safe  distance." 

"But,"  Maud  interrupted,  "you  are  keeping  us  in 
dreadful  suspense.  How  did  it  end?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Nelson,  "how  long  did  the  boy 
and  the  bear  face  each  other  on  the  bridge  ?" 

"Nobody  knows,  though  probably  not  more  than  fif- 
teen or  twenty  minutes,  judging  by  the  speed  with 
which  Gezhikway  could  run  to  the  spot  where  her 
uncle  met  her." 

"Even  that  must  have  seemed  an  eternity  to  the 
boy,"  said  Dorothy. 

"I've  wished  I  could  know  what  the  bear  thought 
of  it,"  mused  her  brother,  "but  nobody  ever  found  out 
that.  When  the  uncle  came  in  sight,  a  grown  man, 
you  know,  Mr.  Bear  decided  that  it  would  be  just  as 
well  to  postpone  his  business  on  the  other  side  of  the 
river,  for  he  got  up,  looked  dubiously  down  at  the 
rushing  water,  and  then,  using  his  hind  feet  as  a 
pivot,  managed  to  swing  himself  around.  That  done, 
he  loped  away  and  disappeared  in  the  bush." 

"I  should  have  thought  the  boy  would  faint  away 
when  the  strain  was  over,"  said  Mrs.  Nelson. 

ISO 


STRON  GHEART 

"Not  he !  He  was  for  chasing  the  bear,  and  would 
have  pursued  him  just  as  he  was  if  his  uncle  hadn't 
compelled  him  to  go  back  to  the  village.  They  met 
the  men  with  guns  just  setting  out,  but  when  the  story 
was  told,  they  decided  to  let  the  bear  go.  And  from 
that  time  the  boy  was  known  as  Soangetaha." 

The  story  was  discussed  for  some  minutes,  until 
Mrs.  Nelson  suggested  that  it  would  be  hardly  proper 
to  exile  their  guest  longer. 

"Frank,"  said  Dorothy,  then,  "Strongheart  was 
honestly  reluctant  to  having  the  story  told,  wasn't 
he?" 

"Oh,  sure!  He's  the  farthest  removed  from  a 
boaster  of  any  man  I  ever  knew.  It  was  really  play- 
ing rather  unfairly  to  do  as  I  did,  but  I  couldn't  re- 
sist." 

"It's  going  to  be  embarrassing,  then,  when  he  comes 
in—" 

"Right.  We  mustn't  make  any  allusions  to  the  inci- 
dent. Proceed  as  if  there  had  been  no  interruption — 
I'll  tell  you!  Play  something,  Dorothy,  and  I'll  call 
the  other  fellows  in  to  listen." 

Dorothy's  approval  of  the  suggestion  was  mani- 
fested in  her  immediate  recourse  to  the  pianoforte,  and 
her  brother  went  to  the  library,  where  he  said,  "My 
sister  is  going  to  play.  Will  you  come  in  and  hear  her, 
Strongheart  ?" 

A  rippling  prelude  was  in  progress  when  the  Indian 
re-entered  the  drawing-room.  Mrs.  Nelson  caught  his 
eye  and  silently  intimated  that  she  would  like  to  have 
him  sit  beside  her,  which  he  did,  and  then  Dorothy 

187 


STRONGEEART 

began  in  earnest.  She  played  that  masterpiece  of 
Chopin,  the  Nocturne  in  G  major,  whose  melody  is 
woven  through  such  bewildering  modulations  that  the 
soul  of  the  listener  is  taken  in  a  whirl  to  the  heights 
of  ecstasy,  until  it  shrinks  in  holy  fear  from  such  de- 
light, as  a  devotee  might  close  his  eye  after  he  had 
been  vouchsafed  a  glimpse  of  heaven.  Strongheart 
was  enthralled.  Representative  of  a  people  whose  na- 
tive melodies  evidence  a  high  regard  for  music,  he  felt 
his  heart-strings  tighten  as  the  limpid  phrases  sped 
past,  his  blood  ran  cold,  his  fingers  gripped  the  arms 
of  his  chair,  his  eyes  sought  the  performer's  face,  which 
he  saw  in  profile,  as  if  there  he  could  discern  the  secret 
of  the  mighty  force  that  stirred  him. 

Perhaps  he  did  discern  it.  His  previous  contact  with 
civilization  had  taught  him  language,  and  the  super- 
ficial things  found  in  text-books.  His  eyes  had  seen 
the  obvious  evidences  of  the  broader  life,  and,  through 
books  and  association  with  his  teachers,  he  had  in- 
ferred many  of  those  beauties  of  civilization  to  which 
he  had  alluded  more  than  once  when  he  argued  with 
Livingston  in  the  wilderness.  But  not  until  now  had 
his  eyes  beheld  the  realization  of  his  inferences.  His 
previous  experience  went  for  nothing;  all  this  was 
new — the  university,  the  social  life,  the  creature  com- 
forts of  the  wealthy,  their  manner  of  living  in  which 
art  entered  as  an  essential,  familiar  feature.  From  the 
moment  he  entered  the  house,  the  Indian  had  been 
observant,  receptive;  the  unconventional  habits  of 
Mrs.  Nelson's  home,  especially  unconventional  when 
given  over  to  students,  were  yet  studded  with  forms 

188 


STRONGHEART 

that  were  novel  to  the  Ojibway,  and  that  he  seemed 
conversant  with  all  the  features  of  cultivated  life  was 
due  to  his  incessant  watchfulness,  ever  on  his  guard 
to  do  nothing  that  the  others  did  not  do,  and  to  imitate 
them  in  every  detail  of  their  conduct. 

It  was  all  novel ;  better,  it  was  all  beautiful.  What 
he  saw  was  something  real,  not  a  figment  of  the  imag- 
ination ;  he  could  believe  in  this,  believe  in  it  and  love 
it,  for  it  appealed  to  him  as  right,  the  highest  develop- 
ment of  human  relations.  "And  I  am  a  part  of  it! 
I  belong  in  it!"  was  his  underlying,  jubilant  thought. 
Ever  present,  therefore,  beneath  his  composed  feat- 
ures, was  emotional  excitement,  exultant  triumph  in 
that  he  had,  for  the  time  being  at  least,  attained  his 
proper  level;  and  on  the  heart  glowing  with  this  joy 
fell  the  mystic  influence  of  music.  It  carried  him  out 
of  the  realm  of  reason,  made  of  him  a  creature  all  feel- 
ing, and  brought  him  to  the  climax  of  his  amazing 
happiness. 

That,  then,  was  what  he  remembered  most  clearly 
of  this  first  meeting  with  Livingston's  friends — the 
wonderful  uplift  of  his  spirit  when  the  music  sounded ; 
and  it  was  inevitable  that  he  should  associate  that 
exaltation  with  the  person  who  was  its  obvious  cause. 
He  went  to  his  room  that  night  in  a  daze.  He  could 
not  have  said  to  his  most  secret  thoughts  what  it  was 
he  felt,  or  why  it  was  that  his  profound  sense  of  tri- 
umph was  leavened  with  a  gentle  melancholy  that  he 
would  not  have  dismissed  from  consciousness  for  all 
the  wealth  of  the  world ;  but  ever  across  his  sensitive 
memory  floated  the  elusive  strains  of  the  nocturne,  and 

189 


STRONGHEART 

always  they  were  accompanied  by  a  vision  of  the  face 
of  her  who  sat  at  the  instrument  while  they  opened, 
one  after  another,  the  windows  of  his  soul  and  let  in 
the  flood  of  light  that  revealed  the  glories  of  Paradise 
— and  blinded  him. 


190 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  SONG  OF  ELOPEMENT 

The  students  at  Columbia  were  not  long  in  discover- 
ing qualities  in  Strongheart  that  brought  him  speedily 
into  prominence  among  them.  From  the  point  of  view 
of  the  Faculty  he  was  eminently  a  good  student,  for  he 
never  cut  recitations  or  lectures,  and  he  did  a  great 
deal  of  supplementary  reading ;  but  such  a  man  could 
not  possibly  be  a  "grind"  of  the  traditional  type,  for 
his  physical  nature  demanded  imperiously  that  he  give 
attention  to  it.  Consequently  he  took  many  long 
walks,  generally  at  night,  and  alone,  for  he  was  shy 
of  seeking  companionship,  although  no  one  ever 
seemed  more  appreciative  of  it  when  it  was  accorded 
him. 

One  frosty  Saturday  morning,  the  members  of  the 
football  eleven  went  for  an  impromptu  cross-country 
run.  It  happened  that  Strongheart  was  with  Nelson 
just  before  the  men  started,  and  Nelson  invited  him 
to  join  them.  The  Indian  complied  gladly,  and  the 
ludicrous  ease  with  which  he  surpassed  the  whites  in 
speed  and  endurance  made  a  deep  impression  on  them. 
There  was  a  weak  spot  on  the  team  at  that  time  that 
was  giving  Nelson,  the  captain,  no  little  anxiety.  One 
of  the  strongest  players  had  been  incapacitated  by  ill- 

191 


STRONGHEART 

ness,  and  among  the  ambitious  substitutes  was  none 
who  gave  unqualified  promise  of  filling  the  gap  satis- 
factorily. Of  course  it  does  not  follow  that  a  man  is  a 
footballer  because  he  can  run  across  country  faster 
and  further  than  any  other,  but  Strongheart's  demon- 
strated athletic  ability  suggested  to  the  harassed  cap- 
tain the  possibility  that  he  might  be  developed  into  one. 
He  mentioned  the  matter  to  Livingston,  who,  as  might 
have  been  expected,  was  cocksure  that  Strongheart 
would  double  the  efficiency  of  the  eleven.  Nelson 
smiled  at  his  chum's  enthusiasm. 

"If  the  Prex  himself  should  fall  by  the  wayside," 
said  he,  "and  you  had  the  appointment  of  his  succes- 
sor, I  believe  you'd  name  Strongheart." 

"I  believe  Strongheart  would  make  a  mighty  good 
shy  at  Prexy's  job,"  responded  Livingston,  with  great 
seriousness. 

Nelson  laughed  and  sounded  Strongheart  himself. 
Had  he  ever  played  football?  Certainly  he  had;  he 
had  been  one  of  a  team  of  Indians  who  had  beaten  all 
comers  in  Canada.  Good  Lord !  why  hadn't  he  spoken 
of  it  ?  Nobody  had  asked  him.  Would  he  like  to  play 
on  the  Columbia  team  ?  Of  course,  if  Nelson  thought 
he  would  do,  and  the  Indian's  pleased  expression  told 
his  now  familiar  observer  that  he  would  be,  if  not  the 
most  effective  player,  at  least  as  devoted  as  any. 

So  Strongheart  was  added  to  the  list  of  substitutes, 
and  it  needed  only  a  little  preliminary  practice  to  de- 
monstrate his  entire  capability.  With  no  misgivings 
whatever,  Nelson  put  him  into  play  in  the  very  next 
game.  It  was  a  contest,  as  football  games  usually  are, 

192 


STRONGHEART 

to  try  nerve  as  well  as  muscle,  head  as  well  as  wind; 
and  the  emergencies  of  the  day  brought  the  Indian  to  a. 
sudden  and  thorough  test  of  his  fitness.  He  proved 
not  only  a  giant  in  mere  strength,  but  marvelously 
quick  both  in  body  and  mind,  grasping  the  tactics  with 
the  certainty  of  a  veteran,  and  never  failing  to  show 
that  he  had  eyes  for  more  moves  in  the  game  than  the 
one  immediately  under  his  control. 

Great  acclaim  was  made  over  Strongheart's  work  in 
the  game,  which  not  only  determined  his  permanent 
membership  in  the  team,  but  established  his  general 
popularity  in  the  student  body.  The  young  men  were 
immediately  proud  of  "our  Indian,"  and  his  acquaint- 
ance was  sought  by  many  who  theretofore  had  not 
been  aware  of  his  existence.  So  it  may  be  said  that 
if  anything  had  been  lacking  to  assure  Strongheart 
that  he  belonged  to  the  college,  football  supplied  the 
deficiency.  It  rounded  out  his  relation  to  the  institu- 
tion and  his  fellow  students,  and,  quite  aside  from  his 
interest  in  the  game  considered  for  its  own  sake,  there 
was  for  him  a  special  pride  and  satisfaction  in  the  feel- 
ing that  he  was  striving  for  his  college.  Every  man 
ou  the  team  was  inspired  by  identically  the  same  feel- 
ing, but  it  is  doubtful  if  any  appreciated  it  to  such  a 
degree  as  Strongheart.  His  attitude  toward  the  Uni- 
versity was  one  akin  to  reverence;  he  longed  for  op- 
portunity to  serve  it,  and  the  game,  as  he  played  it, 
was  ennobled  by  his  lofty  sense  of  devotion  to  his 
Alma  Mater. 

So  the  O  jib  way's  life  fell  into  the  pleasant  routine 
of  college  activities,  and,  for  as  long  as  the  football 

193 


STRONGHEART 

season  lasted,  there  was  hardly  time  in  each  twenty- 
four  hours  for  all  he  wished  to  do.  Weeks  passed 
before  he  met  Dorothy  again.  Once  he  caught  just  a 
glimpse  of  her.  She  had  come  up  to  the  University  to 
see  her  brother,  for,  although  his  home  was  in  the  city, 
he  and  Livingston  had  rooms  in  one  of  the  dormitories. 
Strongheart  was  on  his  way  from  a  lecture  to  his  own 
room,  and  was  crossing  Amsterdam  avenue,  when  the 
memory  of  that  marvelous  music  he  had  heard  on  the 
occasion  of  his  evening  at  Mrs.  Nelson's  came  over 
him  with  unusual  vividness.  That  music  haunted  him 
at  all  hours.  It  came  to  him  as  a  yearning  aspiration 
when  he  walked  alone  at  night ;  sometimes  it  flooded 
his  brain  in  the  very  middle  of  a  lecture  to  which  he 
was  giving  the  most  strained  attention ;  once  it  swept 
over  him  when  he  retired,  hot  and  panting,  to  the 
dressing-room  after  a  fierce  half  at  football.  Often 
he  deliberately  recalled  the  sensations  of  that  exalted 
moment,  more  often  they  recurred  to  him  unbidden, 
and  so  now,  on  the  broad  avenue,  he  dwelt  again  in 
dreamy  rapture,  and  noted  with  satisfaction  the  ex- 
traordinary sharpness  of  outline  which  the  memories 
took  on  as  evidence  that  the  impressions  of  that  blessed 
time  were  not  fading.  They  were  as  real  as  when  he 
heard  the  throbbing  instrument  pour  forth  its  captivat- 
ing strains,  and  saw  her  face  alight  with  the  joy  of 
interpretation — her  face,  for,  now  as  at  first,  the  music 
and  Dorothy  were  inseparable.  Then,  just  when  his 
pleasure  over  the  distinctness  of  the  memory  was  at 
its  height,  he  became  aware  that  Dorothy  was  board- 
ing a  car  within  a  few  paces  of  him.  He  stonped 

194 


STRONGHEART 

abruptly  and  stared  at  the  departing  car  until  it  dis- 
appeared over  the  brow  of  the  hill,  and  when  at  length 
he  went  on  he  noticed  that  his  heart  was  beating 
tumultuously. 

If  Strongheart  did  not  feel  that  the  fates  had  been 
kind  to  him  that  day,  there  was  a  man  who  did,  for 
Dorothy's  visit  had  not  been  prearranged,  and  it  was 
only  by  chance  that  Livingston  went  to  his  rooms 
while  she  was  there  with  her  brother.  He  had  not 
been  wholly  without  sight  of  her  since  the  "family 
gathering,"  as  he  called  it,  but  there  had  been  no  such 
frequency  of  meeting  as  his  heart  desired,  especially 
during  the  period  when  the  exigencies  of  training  com- 
pelled the  sacrifice  of  dinner  parties  and  all  functions 
tending  to  late  hours.  That  period  was  now  past,  and 
it  was  one  of  Livingston's  many  compensations  for 
existence  that  he  could  look  forward  to  general  social 
pleasures  and,  therefore,  to  more  than  occasional  even- 
ings with  Dorothy.  On  this  day  the  confab  was  brief, 
but  in  the  course  of  it  Dorothy  remarked  that  she  was 
going  to  spend  the  following  Thursday  afternoon  at 
the  National  Academy,  Molly  and  the  other  girls  hav- 
ing begged  her  to  inspect  their  drawings,  assuring  her 
that  they  esteemed  her  judgment  more  highly  than 
that  of  their  teachers.  And  so  it  happened,  for  surely 
it  is  unnecessary  to  state  the  connection  in  explicit 
terms,  that  early  on  Thursday  afternoon  Livingston 
said  to  Strongheart,  "I'm  going  down  to  the  art  school 
to  see  my  sister.  Will  you  come  along?" 

"Of  course,"  Strongheart  replied;  "where  is  the 
school  ?" 

195 


STRONGHEART 

"Near  by,  on  One-hundred-and-ninth  Street." 

"Are  visitors  allowed?  though  I  don't  need  to  ask, 
for  you  would  not  go  if  they  were  not." 

"Oh,  yes.  There's  a  good  deal  of  informality  about 
the  art  school.  It  isn't  like  our  lectures  and  demon- 
strations, you  know." 

They  picked  up  Nelson  on  the  way  and  arrived 
shortly  at  the  Academy  building,  whence,  even  as  they 
entered  its  portals,  came  such  a  chattering  and  laugh- 
ing as  suggested  anything  but  a  school  in  session. 
Livingston  led  the  way  and  opened  a  door  into  a  large 
room  where  a  score  of  long-aproned  girls  were  whisk- 
ing easels  and  drawing-boards  out  of  the  way  with 
extraordinary  energy.  About  the  same  number  of 
young  men  were  similarly  engaged,  save  two  who  were 
gravely  executing  a  pas  de  deux  in  a  corner  to  the 
music  of  their  own  voices  raised  in  a  raucous  war- 
bling above  the  hubbub.  Strongheart  viewed  the  scene 
with  infinite  astonishment,  and  even  Nelson  exclaimed, 
"Great  Scott !  what's  this  ?" 

"Looks  like  a  revolution,  doesn't  it?"  said  Living- 
ston. 

Just  then,  Molly,  who  was  evidently  the  ringleader 
in  the  strange  affair,  saw  the  visitors  and  came  to  them 
on  the  run. 

"What  luck  that  you  should  come  today !"  she  cried. 
"How  de  do,  Strongheart,"  and  she  shook  hands. 
"Isn't  it  immense?" 

"What  the  mischief  is  it  all  about,  Molly?"  asked 
Livingston. 

"Why!"  she  explained,  "the  committee  has  allowed 
196 


STRONGHEART 

us  to  have  a  treat  this  afternoon,  and  so  we're  going 
to  dance.  A  committee  of  the  boys  has  gone  out  for 
refreshments,  and  another  committee,"  here  she  paused 
and  looked  anxiously  about  the  room,  her  eyes  resting 
with  indignation  on  the  pair  dancing  in  the  corner. 
"Now  what  do  you  think  of  that?"  she  cried  disdain- 
fully. "Wouldn't  that  kill  you?" 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  Nelson;  "what  about 
the  other  committee?" 

"That's  the  other  committee,"  she  replied,  point- 
ing with  dramatic  scorn  at  the  dancing  pair.  "I 
appointed  them  to  get  music,  and  that's  the  way  they 
do  it !  How  ever  can  we  have  a  ball  if  they  don't  get 
busy  ?" 

"That  may  be  their  way  of  working  themselves  up 
to  the  occasion,"  suggested  Nelson;  "tuning  up,  you 
know." 

"Is  it  music  you  want  ?"  cried  Livingston,  with  sud- 
den inspiration.  "I  s'pose  we're  in  on  this  ?  All  right, 
we'll  get  the  music.  Come  on,  Frank.  You  wait  for 
us  here,  Strongheart." 

"Well,  but,"  Nelson  began,  as  Livingston  seized  him 
by  the  arm  and  hustled  him  toward  the  door. 

"Don't  you  remember,"  said  Livingston,  in  answer 
to  his  chum's  expostulation,  and  added  something  that 
the  others  did  not  hear. 

"Oh,  cert !"  exclaimed  Nelson,  and  off  they  went. 

"Well,  that's  all  right,"  said  Molly.  "I  don't  know 
what  Dick  has  in  mind,  but  they'll  come  back  with 
music  sure  enough.  Want  to  make  yourself  useful, 
Strongheart  ?" 

197 


STRON GHEART 

"By  all  means.  Anything  but  standing  idle  when 
there  is  something  to  do.  What  is  your  wish  ?" 

"We  must  put  all  these  statues  and  busts  against 
the  wall  so  as  to  make  as  much  room  as  possible. 
Let's  get  this  old  discus-thrower  out  of  the  way." 

There  was  a  number  of  classic  ladies  and  gentlemen 
in  more  or  less  dusty  white  who  served  as  tireless 
models  for  the  students  of  the  antique  class,  and  they 
were  placed  with  their  faces  to  the  wall  that  there 
might  be  no  misapprehension  as  to  the  non-profes- 
sional character  of  the  subsequent  proceedings.  Molly 
took  hold  of  the  discus-thrower  with  Strongheart,  but 
she  was  not  allowed  to  do  any  tugging  and  lifting, 
for  some  of  the  men  students  gave  over  their  nonsense 
and  pushed  her  aside.  This  brought  about  hasty  in- 
troductions to  Strongheart,  whose  fame  as  a  footballer 
had  reached  most  of  the  budding  geniuses  of  the 
Academy,  and  who  was  therefore  welcome  aside  from 
the  fact  that  an  introduction  by  Molly  Livingston 
established  him.  Betty  Bates  and  Maud  Weston  also 
discovered  Strongheart's  presence,  and  came  up  to 
speak  to  him.  He  fell  into  the  spirit  of  the  moment 
and  returned  their  greetings  with  befitting  informality, 
and  without  intermitting  his  work. 

Altogether  it  took  but  a  few  minutes  to  make  the 
room  as  ready  as  it  could  be,  and  the  art  students  had 
assembled  interestedly  about  the  committee  on  refresh- 
ments who  came  in,  some  with  paper  bags  of  biscuit 
and  cakes,  some  with  dishes,  and  two  with  a  heavy 
can  of  ice-cream,  all  these  things  picked  up  at  bakeries 
and  restaurants  in  the  neighborhood,  when  there  was 

198 


STRONGHEART 

fresh  commotion  as  the  self-appointed  committee  on 
music  entered  to  announce  their  contribution  to  the 
event. 

"Here,  all  you  Mike  Angelos,"  cried  Livingston, 
"come  out  here  and  give  us  a  hand." 

The  students  rushed  pell  mell  to  the  outer  door, 
where  there  was  no  need  to  give  them  directions  what 
to  do,  for  there  stood  two  grimy  and  bewildered  Ital- 
ians with  their  portable  piano.  Strongheart  remem- 
bered that  he  and  his  friends  had  passed  the  men  in- 
dustriously grinding  out  tunes  midway  between  the 
Academy  and  the  University.  The  students  immedi- 
ately laid  hands  on  the  music  machine  and  lifted  it  over 
the  threshold,  rolling  it  then  into  the  improvised  ball- 
room. 

"Get  busy,  signori,"  commanded  Nelson ;  "come  now, 
prestissimo  con  amore  allabazan!" 

The  Italians  grinned  feebly,  and  one  of  them  applied 
his  doubtful,  but  well-paid  hand  to  the  crank.  Most 
of  the  future  artists  were  already  paired  off  and  hop- 
ping tentatively  over  the  floor  pending  the  music  to 
give  them  rhythmic  uniformity,  and  as  soon  as  one 
measure  had  been  rattled  off  by  the  strident  instrument 
the  ball  was  in  full  swing.  Nelson  had  seized  Molly 
and  waltzed  away  with  her,  Livingston  caught  Betty 
Bates  in  the  same  rustic-cavalier  fashion,  and  all  in  the 
room,  save  the  Ojibway  and  the  Italians,  were  in  mo- 
tion. Strongheart  looked  on  with  an  almost  hungry 
smile,  and  presently  Molly  observed  him. 

"Why,  Frank !"  she  exclaimed,  "there's  Strongheart 
posing  as  a  wall-flower.  That  won't  do  at  all." 

199 


STRONGHEART 

She  immediately  broke  away  from  her  partner,  who 
did  not  seek  to  detain  her,  and  approached  the  Indian. 

"Do  you  dance,  Strongheart  ?"  she  asked. 

"Not  this  way,"  he  replied.    "I  never  learned." 

"It's  high  time  you  did.  Come  on,  I'll  teach  you," 
and  she  held  out  her  hand. 

Strongheart  shook  his  head  and  drew  back.  "Not 
here,  Miss  Livingston,"  he  pleaded.  "I  should  be  in 
everybody's  way,  and — really,  I  appreciate  your  kind- 
ness, but  you'd  better  excuse  me.  Perhaps  I'll  learn 
before  the  next  occasion  of  the  kind." 

Molly  did  not  insist,  for  she  inferred  that  Strong- 
heart  was  fearful  of  making  himself  ridiculous,  and 
she  had  learned  from  her  brother's  talk  about  Indian 
character  that  ridicule  is  the  one  thing  the  red  man 
fears  most  at  the  hands  of  the  white.  "Why  not  jump 
in  and  dance  in  your  own  way  ?"  she  said,  but  Strong- 
heart  merely  smiled  and  shook  his  head  as  if  he  quite 
understood  that  the  suggestion  was  not  to  be  taken 
seriously. 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  said.  "You  must  not  neglect  this 
part  of  your  education,"  and  then  she  was  whisked 
away  by  an  art  student. 

"Gay,  isn't  it?"  said  Nelson,  taking  his  place  by 
Strongheart. 

"Indeed  it  is!    Does  it  happen  often?" 

"Probably  not,  but  you  never  can  tell  what  is  going 
to  happen  here." 

"You  ought  not  to  lose  your  opportunity  for  fun, 
Frank.  Please  don't  stay  out  just  because  I'm  here." 

"I  won't;  but,  you  see,  there  are  more  men  than 
200 


STRON GHEART 

girls  here,  and  this  is  their  affair.  I'll  find  another 
partner  presently." 

The  superfluity  of  men  was  not  productive  of  more 
wall-flowers,  for  the  men  who  did  not  find  girl  part- 
ners, at  once  took  up  with  one  another,  such  ill-matched 
pairs  cavorting  about  the  room  with  the  most  extrava- 
gant manifestations  of  joy  in  some  instances,  and 
with  preposterously  solemn  countenances  in  others. 
The  music  machine  was  allowed  no  rest,  and  the  scene 
on  the  floor  changed  now  and  then  according  to  the 
measure  of  the  tune  ground  out,  or  according  to  the 
sudden  fancy  of  the  dancers.  There  were  soon  pairs 
and  groups  of  flushed  and  panting  young  people  here 
and  there,  catching  their  breath,  but  at  no  moment  was 
the  floor  wholly  deserted.  As  the  affair  was  im- 
promptu, so  it  was  unorganized  for  a  time,  and  pres- 
ently it  took  on  a  highly  original  form.  Two  young 
men  who  had  not  found  partners  began  to  dance 
grotesquely,  squatting  close  to  the  floor,  while  they 
held  each  other  by  the  hands,  and  circling  around  the 
room  with  every  contortion  of  their  limbs  that  they 
could  invent  and  yet  not  collapse.  These  two  kept 
their  faces  preternaturally  sedate,  and  affected  to  be 
utterly  oblivious  of  observers. 

"It's  a  dare !"  cried  Molly,  who  had  been  resting  for 
a  bit.  "Come,  Maud,  let's  show  them!" 

Maud  was  quite  ready  for  the  ordeal.  She  and 
Molly  clasped  hands  and  fell  in  behind  the  two  men, 
imitating  their  extraordinary  antics  in  spite  of  im- 
peding skirts,  the  men  meanwhile  adhering  to  their 
affectation  of  blindness  to  their  surroundings.  The 

201 


STRONGHEART 

room  roared  with  laughter,  and  one  after  another  the 
others,  in  couples,  joined  the  odd  diversion  until  nearly 
all  were  concerned  in  it.  Even  the  Italians,  taking 
turns  at  the  melodious  crank,  grinned  in  appreciation 
of  the  frolic. 

"Dick,"  said  Strongheart,  suddenly,  for  at  the  mo- 
ment Livingston  was  out  of  the  fun,  save  as  he  howled 
and  wept  over  it,  "how  long  will  this  last?" 

"Oh,  till  they  get  tired  of  it.  Another  round  or  two, 
I  suppose." 

"I  don't  mean  merely  this  grotesque  exhibition,  but 
the  ball." 

"Oh!  all  the  afternoon.    Why?" 

"Because  I've  got  to  do  my  share.  If  I  can't  be 
civilized,  I'll  be  a  savage.  I'm  going  to  run  to  my 
room  and  back.  Can  you  find  me  a  side  room,  or  a 
closet,  anything  to  dress  in  when  I  return?" 

Livingston's  eyes  glowed  excitedly,  for  he  guessed 
the  Indian's  intent.  "You  bet !"  he  answered.  "Don't 
let  the  grass  grow  under  your  feet,  old  chap." 

"I  won't.    Watch  out  for  me,  Dick." 

He  was  gone  like  a  shot,  and  many  a  man  on  the 
avenue  during  the  next  few  minutes  turned  to  admire 
the  lithe  runner  speeding  northward.  At  the  bottom 
of  Strongheart's  trunk,  unseen  hitherto  by  anybody  at 
Columbia  except  Livingston  and  Nelson,  was  a  com- 
plete, old-time  O  jib  way  outfit,  from  war  bonnet  to 
drum.  In  the  simplicity  of  his  heart,  Chief  Kiwetin 
had  handed  the  articles  to  his  son  just  before  his  de- 
parture. 

"You  are  going  to  a  great  school  in  the  greatest  city 
202 


STRONGHEART 

of  the  whites,"  said  the  old  man,  "and  it  may  be  you 
will  meet  there  some  of  the  great  men  of  the  nation. 
There  may  be  councils  to  which  you  will  be  invited, 
where  it  will  be  wise  for  you  to  appear  as  the  repre- 
sentative of  your  people,  when  it  would  be  more 
courteous  to  the  whites  to  dress  in  the  ancient  way. 
So,  take  them,  for  it  is  well  to  be  prepared." 

Strongheart  knew  better  at  the  time.  He  was  con- 
scious of  humiliation  that  his  father  should  be  so  little 
aware  of  the  conditions  of  civilized  life,  but  it  was 
not  in  his  heart  to  refuse  the  old  man,  especially  when 
he  knew  that  the  gift  of  the  war  bonnet  was  of  pro- 
found significance;  for  its  feathers  had  been  honestly 
won  by  Kiwetin  in  his  younger  days  before  the  ancient 
customs  had  staled  in  the  flat  atmosphere  of  the 
reservation.  It  was  a  record  of  proud  achievements 
every  feather  standing  for  a  deed  approved  by  thfe 
chiefs  of  the  earlier  day,  and  the  presentation  to 
Strongheart  meant  that  such  differences  as  father  and 
son  had  had  in  the  past  were  forgotten,  and,  further, 
that  the  son  was  deemed  worthy  to  wear  the  bonnet, 
of  the  Chief.  The  son  therefore  had  accepted  the  gift 
with  becoming  gravity,  while  he  silently  regarded  it 
as  a  useless  encumbrance.  Here  was  unexpected  op- 
portunity to  put  it  to  use,  and  he  hastened  to  avail 
himself  of  it. 

Follow-your-leader  at  the  Academy  had  given  place 
to  other  diversions,  and  Molly  was  threatening  to  bring 
the  affair  into  some  sort  of  organization ;  she  was  hur- 
riedly instructing  an  obedient  youth  in  the  manner  of 
calling  off  Virginia  Reel,  when  her  brother,  who  had 

803 


STRON GHEART 

been  absent,  returned  to  the  room,  strode  to  the  Ital- 
ians and  bade  them  rest.  Before  the  crowd  generally 
realized  that  anything  was  about  to  happen,  there 
was  the  thundering  sound  of  a  drum  from  a  side  room, 
and,  every  face  having  been  turned  that  way,  the  door 
opened,  and  an  Indian  chief  in  all  the  magnificent  pic- 
turesqueness  of  trailing  bonnet,  beaded  vest,  fringed 
shaps  and  quill-decorated  moccasins,  stalked  majestic- 
ally in.  At  first  most  of  the  students  supposed  that 
one  of  the  professional  models  had  visited  them,  but 
they  were  quickly  undeceived,  for  Molly  cried  "Strong- 
heart!"  in  a  tone  that  was  heard  by  all.  There  was 
an  outburst  of  applause,  which  was  quickly  stilled,  so 
intent  was  every  eye  in  watching  the  visitor. 

His  face  as  grave  as  if  he  were  performing  a  sacred 
ceremony,  Strongheart  thwacked  his  drum  slowly,  and 
with  measured  tread  circled  the  room.  Then  he  began 
to  beat  a  little  faster,  the  strokes  alternating  in  force, 
loud-soft,  loud-soft,  and  his  voice  was  heard  in  a  wild 
song.  At  the  same  time  his  whole  body  took  on  mo- 
tion; with  genuflections  and  bending  from  the  hips, 
with  stepping  and  shuffling,  with  much  turning  and 
bowing,  he  made  half  the  circuit  of  the  room  before 
the  observers  gave  token  of  their  appreciation.  At 
first,  so  different  is  the  Ojibway  from  the  dance  of 
civilization,  that  even  these  spectators  were  inclined  to 
see  grotesqueness  in  it,  and,  of  course,  none  was  there 
to  know  or  dream  of  the  vital  significance  that  might 
underlie  the  movements;  but  presently,  to  these  art 
lovers,  the  essential  grace  of  the  Indian's  motions  over- 
came their  strangeness ;  what  with  the  gorgeous  color 

204 


HIS  FACE   AS  GRAVE   AS   IF   HE    WERE   PERFORMING   A   SACRED   CEREMONY. 

Page  204 


STRONGHEART 

of  the  garments,  the  brilliant  headgear  undulating  as 
the  dancer  advanced,  the  fringes  quivering,  and  every 
lithe  movement  suggesting  restrained  force,  there  was 
a  spectacle  to  arouse  the  enthusiasm  of  any  artist,  and 
a  hearty  outburst  of  applause  drowned  the  song. 
Some  of  the  irrepressible  male  contingent  let  out  fal- 
setto yells,  whereupon  at  least  three  girls  cried  "hush !" 
indignantly,  fearful  that  their  Indian  friend  would  take 
offense.  Their  fine  feeling  in  this  instance  was  wasted, 
for,  when  Strongheart  had  completed  the  circuit  of 
the  room,  he  himself  gave  vent  to  an  ear-splitting 
shriek  with  which  no  white  man's  voice  could  dream 
of  coping,  and  immediately  there  was  laughter  and 
more  applause.  The  Ojibway  went  whirling  on  with 
his  dance,  and,  as  he  passed  the  group  of  his  particular 
friends,  he  interrupted  his  song  long  enough  to  say 
to  Molly,  "Fall  in,"  and  then  proceeded  as  if  he  had 
not  spoken. 

Molly  took  the  cue  at  once.  Imitating  the  Indian 
as  formerly  she  had  imitated  the  grotesque  antics  of 
the  whites,  she  fell  in  behind  him,  and  this  was  the 
signal  for  a  prompt  and  enthusiastic  renewal  of  follow- 
my-leader.  Strongheart  nodded  as  he  saw  the  line 
lengthening  when  he  looked  behind  in  the  course  of 
his  incessant  turnings,  and  Nelson,  catching  his  eye, 
hastened  to  take  his  place  between  Molly  and  the  In- 
dian. 

"Catch  this  strain,  can't  you?"  said  Strongheart, 
singing  three  or  four  tones  to  "la  la  la  la." 

Nelson  tried  it  softly,  and  his  eyes  were  interroga- 
tion points. 

205 


STRONGHEART 

"When  I  come  to  that,  join  in,"  said  Strongheart. 

It  took  a  few  trials  for  Nelson  to  get  the  swing  of 
the  odd  musical  phrase,  but  when  he  grasped  the  fact 
that  it  was  designed  as  a  choral  response  to  the  lead- 
ing dancer's  solo,  he  put  all  the  power  of  his  lungs 
into  it.  The  scheme  ''took"  with  the  rest  at  once, 
and  before  Strongheart  was  half  way  around  the  room 
again,  the  whole  assemblage  was  in  a  tortuous,  bend- 
ing, shuffling,  prancing  line,  and  at  regular  intervals 
all  voices  howled  the  choral  response  in  more  or  less, 
generally  less,  tunefulness,  producing  an  effect  that 
would  have  put  genuine  savagery  to  the  blush. 

The  line  was  so  long  that  Strongheart  caught  up 
with  the  end  of  it,  and  he  led  his  followers  in  a  con- 
centric curve  to  avoid  running  down  those  in  the 
rear.  Thus  he  passed  several  of  the  dancers,  and  thus, 
in  the  course  of  his  constant  turning,  he  came  face  to 
face  with  Dorothy.  Aye,  there  she  was,  near  the  end 
of  the  line,  she  and  Livingston  together,  both  waving 
their  arms,  bending  their  knees,  and  shuffling  around 
in  conscientious  imitation  of  their  leader. 

Dorothy  had  arrived  at  the  Academy  during  Strong- 
heart's  absence,  and  Livingston,  as  soon  as  he  had 
ushered  in  the  Indian,  had  gone  to  her,  and  they  had 
stood  a  little  apart,  watching  the  proceedings  until 
they,  too,  were  infected  with  the  hilarious  jollity  of 
the  occasion  and  forthwith  joined  the  dance. 

Sight  of  her  almost  brought  the  dance  to  disaster, 
for  Strongheart  halted  abruptly  and  stopped  drum- 
ming. He  felt  the  fire  in  his  cheeks,  and  Dorothy 
could  not  fail  to  see  the  flames  heighten  their  copper 

206 


STRONGHEART 

hue.  Fortunately  it  was  the  moment  for  the  choral 
response,  and  such  a  caterwauling  went  up  as  would 
have  drowned  the  drum  if  it  had  been  sounded,  and 
which,  therefore,  was  not  missed  by  any  save  Dor- 
othy and  Livingston  who  saw  that  the  stroke  was 
omitted. 

There  was  no  saying  anything  to  Strongheart  over 
such  an  uproar,  but  Dorothy  sent  a  message  to  him, 
nevertheless,  for  she  perceived  the  emergency.  In- 
stantly she  redoubled  her  frenzied  gesturing,  anc 
smiled  delightedly ;  and  Strongheart,  reading  her  eyes, 
knew  that  she  did  not  disapprove,  but  wished  him  to 
proceed.  He  was  as  quick  to  recover  as  he  had  been  to 
falter,  and  so,  bending  and  turning,  increasing  the 
speed  of  drum-stroke  and  step,  he  kept  the  dancers 
going  until  they  became  confused  in  the  intricacies  of 
the  concentric  curves,  and  began  to  stumble  against 
one  another.  Then  Strongheart  gave  his  drum  one 
fortissimo  thwack,  and  shook  the  roof  with  a  war- 
whoop. 

The  students  clapped  their  hands  and  shouted :  they 
crowded  around  the  Indian,  commenting,  flattering, 
questioning.  For  a  half  minute  it  would  have  been 
impossible  to  answer  questions  or  acknowledge  com- 
pliments, even  if  they  could  have  be,en  heard  distinctly, 
and  in  that  interval  Strongheart  pushed  his  smiling 
way  through  the  press  until  he  stood  before  Dorothy. 

"Ah,  Strongheart!"  she  exclaimed,  holding  out  her 
hand  before  he  could  speak,  "it  was  splendid!  I'm 
sure  we've  all  disgraced  you  by  our  ridiculous  attempts 
to  follow  your  example,  but  we  did  our  best,  and  it 

207 


STRONGHEART 

has  been  such  fun!    I  don't  know  when  I've  enjoyed 
myself  so  much.'* 

"That's  right!"  cried  a  dozen  voices. 

''You  see,  I  speak  for  all,"  said  Dorothy. 

"I  did  not  realize  that  you  were  taking  part  in  the 
frolic  when  I  first  saw  you,  and  I  was  horribly  mor- 
tified," said  Strongheart,  gravely,  and  then,  with  a 
quick  glance  aside,  he  changed  his  manner;  for  the 
moment,  in  the  one  presence,  he  had  forgotten  the  very 
existence  of  these  others.  "I'm  glad  you  enjoyed  it," 
he  added  heartily.  "I  wanted  to  do  my  share,  but 
wasn't  quite  sure  how  you'd  take  it." 

"Three  cheers  for  the  Indian !"  cried  somebody,  and 
the  cheers  were  given  with  imitations  of  the  warwhoop 
at  the  end. 

"But,  I  say,  Mr.  Strongheart,"  said  a  young  man, 
pushing  his  way  to  the  centre,  "tell  us  what  we've 
been  doing.  Surely  this  wasn't  all  nonsense  to  you — 
that  is,  it  wasn't  wholly  impromptu,  was  il?" 

"I  won't  deny  the  nonsense,"  Strongheart  answered, 
in  his  quietly  pleased  way,  "nor  claim  that  it  was 
wholly  impromptu.  No,  what  you've  been  doing  was 
a  crude  outline  of  the  ancient  Snake  Dance." 

There  were  exclamations  of  fresh  interest,  and  a 
dozen  questions  at  once.  Strongheart  did  his  best  to 
answer,  and  presently  one  of  the  girls  was  heard  to 
say  that  the  song  was  the  strangest  she  had  ever 
heard. 

"Barbaric,  wasn't  it  ?"  Strongheart  suggested. 

"Well,  yes,"  the  girl  answered,  in  some  embarrass- 
ment, "it  did  seem  so  to  me." 

208 


STRONGHEART 

"And  it  was,"  said  he.  "Most  of  our  ancient  cere- 
monial songs  are  barbaric,  but  we  have  others,  love 
songs  and  so  forth,  that  are  quite  different." 

"Song !  song !"  shouted  those  who  had  heard. 

Strongheart  was  taken  by  surprise,  for  it  had  been 
farthest  from  his  design  to  lead  up  to  this  demand. 
He  made  as  if  he  would  withdraw,  but  Molly  stood  in 
his  way. 

"Now,  Strongheart,  you  can't  escape,"  she  said. 
"You've  brought  this  on  yourself  by  venturing  single- 
handed  into  the  camp  of  the  enemy,  and  you  must  take 
the  consequences.  The  committee  on  refreshments  is 
about  to  get  busy,  but  you  shall  not  be  fed  unless  you 
sing.  Now — sing  for  your  supper !" 

As  ever,  the  Indian  chose  to  put  a  good  face  on 
the  situation,  and,  with  an  appealing  glance  at  his 
especial  friends,  as  if  to  apologize  for  what  he  felt 
compelled  to  do  against  his  better  judgment,  he 
thwacked  his  drum  to  command  silence. 

"I  yield  to  superior  numbers,"  said  he,  "and  if  your 
torture  is  equal  to  mine,  I  shall  feel  amply  revenged. 
This  is  a  song  of  an  elopement." 

The  giddy  ones  had  to  have  their  giggles  at  this 
announcement,  and  Strongheart  waited  until  all  were 
still.  Then,  quietly,  without  the  clamor  of  the  drum, 
and  in  a  smooth,  rich  baritone,  he  sang: 

Beshahkah  nindegobun, 

Ahpetah  tibikuk  bezhakah,  nindegobun — 

The  students  were  generous  with  their  applause. 
Such  was  their  good  feeling  that  they  would  have 

209 


STRONGHEART 

applauded  the  Italians,  or  even  one  of  their  own  num- 
ber telling  a  dull  story;  and  Strongheart  was  wise 
enough  to  recognize  the  undiscriminating  character  of 
the  demonstration.  He  smiled  agreeably  at  his  audi- 
ence, and  then  asserted  that  he  had  earned  his  supper, 
asking  Molly  if  it  were  not  so. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "you  have  done  more  to  entertain 
us  than  all  the  rest  put  together.  You  sha'n't  be  im- 
posed on  any  longer.  Don't  give  them  an  encore, 
Strongheart.  If  you  do,  I  sha'n't  listen." 

The  students  were  easily  swayed.  A  little  urging, 
a  little  resistance,  a  good  deal  of  clatter  on  the  part  of 
the  committee  on  refreshments,  and  the  ordeal  for  him 
was  at  an  end,  for  attention  was  directed  elsewhere. 

One  there  was  in  the  audience  who  did  not  ap- 
plaud, her  amazed  silence  being  the  highest  tribute  she 
could  have  offered  to  the  singer  and  his  song.  She, 
presumably,  was  the  only  one  there  qualified  to  note 
the  perfectness  of  the  melody  as  a  composition,  the 
only  one  who  could  view  the  matter  expertly.  To  her 
the  song  spoke  in  its  own  language  as  an  expression 
of  the  spirit  of  beauty,  and  it  came  as  a  revelation,  so 
unexpected,  yet  so  fitting  to  the  strong-featured  singer 
and  his  barbaric  dress.  It  was  as  if  the  voice  of  Na- 
ture called  to  her  and  said,  "I  am  here ;  you  have  but 
to  seek  to  find  me ;  my  beauty  is  here,  not  deeply  hid- 
den ;  you  have  only  to  ask  and  it  is  yours."  Music — • 
real,  beautiful,  appealing  music — from  an  Indian !  She 
had  never  heard  of  such  a  phenomenon ;  and  the  tune, 
as  elusive  and  melting  as  it  was  winning,  sank  into  her 
heart  and  dwelt  there  as  a  grateful  memory. 

210 


STRONGHEART 

So,  as  the  strains  of  a  great  singer  of  civilization 
wrought  upon  the  Indian's  spirit,  the  strains  of  an 
unknown,  uncivilized  composer  wrought  on  the  soul  of 
the  white  woman,  and  by  music  both  were  brought  to 
a  new  relationship,  the  gates  of  which  opened  and 
admitted  them,  and  closed,  never  to  be  reopened  for 
a  backward  step. 


211 


CHAPTER  XV 
THORNE'S  GROUND  FOR  JEALOUSY 

"Once  more,  Strongheart,  please.  It  is  so  puzzling !" 
Dorothy  sat  at  the  pianoforte;  on  the  rack  rested 
music  paper,  white,  save  for  a  few  notes  in  pencil, 
many  of  which  had  been  scratched  out.  In  a  chair 
at  the  end  of  the  keyboard  sat  Strongheart,  bent  for- 
ward so  that  his  elbows  rested  on  his  knees.  Her 
brow  was  drawn  into  a  tight  little  frown  as  she  con- 
centrated her  attention  on  the  Ojib way's  song;  his 
brow  was  contracted,  too,  but  purely  in  unconscious 
sympathy  with  her,  for  what  he  did  required  no  effort. 
As  he  sang  softly,  Dorothy's  right  hand  followed 
his  tones  on  the  instrument,  striking  the  keys  lightly, 
now  and  then  making  an  error  which  she  corrected 
quickly. 

"It  isn't  the  intervals!"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  ring 
of  impatience  in  her  voice,  as  she  hurriedly  wrote  sev- 
eral notes  on  the  paper;  "it's  the  time.  I  can't  count 
it.  I  don't  know  where  to  draw  my  bar  lines.  The 
accent  comes  sometimes  in  one  part  of  the  measure, 
sometimes  in  another.  Such  a  puzzle !" 
,  "I  suppose  our  music  is  hopelessly  crude,"  said  he, 
and  his  evident  regret  and  humility  caused  her  to  look 
up  from  her  work  with  a  bright  smile. 

212 


STRONGHEART 

"On  the  contrary,"  she  cried,  "I  assure  you  I  should 
not  try  to  notate  it  if  it  were.  There's  so  much  ugli- 
ness in  the  world  that  I  would  not  attempt  to  perpetu- 
ate these  melodies  if  they  were  not  beautiful.  The 
trouble  is  in  my  crwn  limitation  as  a  musical  theorist 
I  suppose  I  ought  to  perceive  at  once  the  precise 
rhythmical  structure  of  the  tune,  and  I  don't,  that's 
all." 

"You  are  very  good  to  be  so  patient  about  it,"  said 
he. 

"Certainly  I  am,  if  it  is  good  to  cater  to  my  own 
pleasure.  I  think  the  patience  is  wholly  on  your  side. 
Please  sing  it  again." 

Strongheart  complied,  and  the  search  for  notes  and 
their  time  values  was  resumed.  Weeks  had  passed 
since  the  frolicsome  afternoon  at  the  Academy.  Be- 
fore that  event  had  ended  through  the  sheer  fatigue 
of  the  revelers,  Dorothy  had  found  opportunity  to  talk 
with  Strongheart  about  the  song  which  had  impressed 
her  so  deeply  by  reason  of  its  perfect  form  and,  as 
it  seemed  to  her  then,  its  melancholy  beauty. 

"Is  it  written?"  she  had  inquired  eagerly. 

"No,"  was  his  answer,  "my  people  have  no  musical 
notation.  Our  songs  are  handed  down,  like  our  tradi- 
tions, from  one  generation  to  another  by  word  of 
mouth." 

He  told  her,  too,  how  the  Ojibways  are  exceedingly 
shy  of  singing  their  songs  in  the  presence  of  whites, 
fearful,  as  he  analyzed  it,  of  exciting  the  ridicule  of 
the  superior  race ;  and  how,  as  his  people  came  more 
and  more  in  contact  with  civilization,  they  tended  to 

213 


STRONGH EART 

**$• 

.neglect  of  their  own  songs,  picking  up  the  music  of  the 

whites  in  preference. 

"In  time,"  said  he,  "our  songs,  such  as  they  are,  will 
be  forgotten.  They  will  disappear  by  reason  of  disuse. 
Already  on  the  older  reservations  the  habit  of  teaching 
the  family  songs  to  the  children  is  beginning  to  be 
ignored.  Whenever  an  old  man  or  woman  dies,  some 
songs  that  existed  only  in  their  memories  go  out  of 
existence  forever." 

To  Dorothy  this  seemed  nothing  short  of  calamitous. 
Her  love  of  beauty  was  shocked  at  the  possibility  that 
the  music  of  an  entire  people  might  disappear.  The 
one  tune  she  had  heard  was  worth  saving  for  its  own 
sake,  quite  irrespective  of  the  romantic  interest  attach- 
ing to  its  origin ;  it  was  a  fair  inference  that  a  people 
to  whom  its  creation  was  to  be  attributed  had  created 
others  of  equal  aesthetic  value ;  and  her  artistic  as  well 
as  her  altruistic  impulses  led  her  to  ask  Strongheart 
if  he  would  help  her  put  such  songs  as  he  knew  on 
paper.  He  assented  with  unspeakable  delight,  less  in- 
terested, maybe,  in  the  preservation  of  the  songs  than 
in  the  opportunity  the  work  afforded  him  to  be  with 
her.  Be  that  as  it  might,  every  spare  afternoon  and 
evening  since  the  frolic  had  found  him  at  the  Nelson 
home,  where  the  work  went  forward  with  unremitting 
zeal. 

On  this  occasion,  the  song  which  proved  so  puzzling 
to  Dorothy  had  not  yet  been  perfectly  committed  to 
paper  when  the  butler  entered  and  announced  Mr. 
Thorne. 

Dorothy  repressed  the  cry  of  vexation  that  spoke 
214 


STRONGHEART 

in  her  heart,  and,  having  told  the  servant  to  admit  the 
visitor,  she  said  earnestly,  "I  can't  drop  this  now,  just 
when  it's  almost  done.  If  we  leave  it  for  another  day, 
we  shall  have  to  go  all  over  it  from  the  beginning,  I'm 
sure.  Two  or  three  times  more,  and  I  think  we'll  have 
it.  Do  you  mind  ?" 

"In  Thome's  presence?  Not  at  all,  if  that  is  your 
wish,  Miss  Nelson." 

Strongheart  would  have  put  his  hand  in  fire  if  she 
had  asked  it;  to  sing  in  the  presence  of  Thome,  one 
of  his  colleagues  on  the  football  eleven,  was,  spiritu- 
ally, quite  as  painful,  and  the  traditional  stoicism  of  his 
race  was  manifested  in  his  compliance  without  the 
faintest  indication  of  his  repugnance  to  the  task  she 
set  him. 

So  Thorne  came  in,  the  embodiment  of  elegance  in 
faultless  evening  dress,  and  of  polished  insolence  in 
his  manner — that  is,  toward  Strongheart.  His  greet- 
ing to  Dorothy  was  unexceptionable,  but  when  ha 
turned  to  the  Indian  with  a  familiar  "How,  Strong- 
heart,"  it  would  not  have  taken  a  supersensitive  nature 
to  detect  the  disdain  with  which  he  secretly  viewed  the 
red  man. 

"You  are  busy  at  something  ?"  said  he,  with  a  glance 
at  the  pianoforte  rack,  for  Dorothy  had  resumed  her 
place  at  the  instrument.  "Am  I  de  tropf  Do  say  so 
if  I  am." 

"Not  at  all,  Mr.  Thorne,  if  you  don't  mind  being 
ignored  for  just  a  few  minutes.  I  dm  trying  to  take 
down  one  of  Strongheart's  native  songs,  and  I  have 
almost  succeeded.  Will  you  excuse  us?" 

215 


"I  am  non-existent,  Miss  Nelson,"  saying  which, 
Thorne  had  the  good  grace  to  go  to  the  further  end  of 
the  room  and  make  a  pretense  of  interesting  himself 
in  a  book. 

Strongheart  sang  again,  a  little  softer  than  before, 
and  Dorothy's  following  fingers  on  the  keyboard  were 
proportionately  louder,  instinctively  seeking  to  cover 
his  embarrassment.  Perhaps  she  became  conscious  of 
it ;  at  all  events  an  unwonted  flush  came  to  her  cheeks, 
and  the  frown  that  knit  her  brows  deepened.  Her  pen- 
cil wrought  with  greater  certainty,  and  presently,  after 
but  one  repetition  of  the  melody,  a  satisfied  "There !" 
gave  notice  that  the  task  was  done. 

"Are  you  preparing  to  present  the  library  with  a 
collection  of  curiosities,  Strongheart?"  asked  Thorne, 
with  the  flippant  cordiality  that  never  succeeds  in 
masking  contemptuous  indifference. 

Dorothy  saved  the  Ojibway  the  difficulty  of  reply- 
ing. "Curiosities,  Mr.  Thorne!"  she  exclqimed,  "Far 
from  it!  Strongheart's  people  have  songs  of  rare 
beauty,  which  should  not  be  stigmatized  as  curiosities. 
He  has  been  good  enough  to  give  me  the  privilege  of 
putting  some  of  them  on  paper." 

As  Thorne  was  not  wholly  an  idiot,  he  saw  his  error 
and  undertook  speedily  to  correct  it. 

"I  had  no  intention  of  disparaging  the  songs,  I 
assure  you,"  he  said.  "I  used  the  word  'curiosity' 
much  as  I  would  apply  it  to  rare  first  editions,  for 
example,  or  ancient  cut  glass  from  Venice.  I  am  sure 
a  white  man  may  be  pardoned  for  y^ot  knowing  the 
beauties  of  Indian  song." 

216 


STRONGHEART 

"Of  course,  Thorne,"  said  Strongheart.  "White 
men  do  not  hear  them.  So,  how  could  they  know? 
I  took  no  offense." 

"That's  like  you,  Strongheart,"  and  Thorne  spoke 
with  apparent  sincerity.  It  was  so  manifestly  his  cue 
to  play  fair  with  the  Indian  in  Dorothy's  presence ! 
"May  I  ask,  then,  in  all  seriousness,  what-  you  intend 
to  do  with  them?  Is  it  a  collection  for  the  library,  or 
a  library,  Miss  Nelson?" 

"I  hadn't  thought  of  so  great  a  thing  as  that," 
Dorothy  replied,  "though  it  ought  to  be  done  as  a 
historical  record.  No,  I  fear  that  my  work  is  more  for 
my  own  sake.  The  melodies  are  beautiful,  and  while 
I  wish  they  might  all  be  notated,  and  so  preserved,  I 
am  especially  interested  in  their  art  value.  That  is, 
I  think  they  could  be  made  serviceable  to  white  singers 
as  art  songs." 

"You  surprise  me!  Again  without  meaning  the 
least  offense,  it  seems  impossible  to  associate  Indian 
singing  with  the  white  man's  conception  of  art." 

"That  is  the  natural  attitude  of  the  white,"  said 
Strongheart,  hastening  to  speak  before  Dorothy  could 
interpose,  "for  the  white  man  knows  nothing  of  In- 
dian art.  And  it  is  true  that  in  music  we  are  centuries 
behind  the  whites.  Miss  Nelson  is  generous  enough 
to  find  simple  beauty  in  some  of  our  melodies — " 

"And  art  value!"  she  interrupted  emphatically. 
"Let  us  convince  him,  Strongheart.  There's  one  song, 
Mr.  Thorne,  the  first  I  heard  Strongheart  sing,  that 
we  have  put  into  art  form,  that  is,  it  has  English  word* 
which  Strongheart  wrote,  a  translation,  you 

217 


STRONGHEART 

stand,  of  the  original,  and  an  accompaniment  which  I 
made  myself.  You  shall  hear  it  and  become  an  apostle 
for  our  cause,  for  you  must  find  that  the  song  is  beau- 
tiful, or  set  yourself  down  as  deficient  in  musical 
feeling." 

As  she  spoke,  she  rummaged  in  her  pile  of  music 
paper  and  at  length  set  on  the  rack  a  finished  song. 
Then  she  seated  herself  and  glanced  smilingly  at 
Strongheart.  Perhaps  she  saw  the  mute  appeal  in  his 
eyes,  perhaps  she  felt  his  shrinking  from  the  exhibition 
she  demanded,  but  if  so  she  had  no  mercy  on  him  this 
time,  for  she  played  the  prelude  she  had  composed  for 
the  song,  and  Strongheart,  as  always  meeting  his 
emergencies  manfully,  sang  the  Song  of  Elopement,  the 
English  words  of  which  he  had  put  together  at  the 
expense  of  no  little  midnight  oil: 

Here  alone,  wait  I  the  hour; 

Here  alone,  I  wait  the  blessed  hour, 

Waiting  lone,  blessing  the  hour; 

For  at  midnight  she  will  join  me  here, 

Blessed  hour  that  brings  my  sweetheart  near, 

Long  the  wait,  blessed  the  hour! 

"Bravo !"  cried  Thorne,  at  the  conclusion,  "bravissi- 
mo!  Spendid!  Wonderful!  I  am  convinced,  Miss 
Nelson.  Behold  me,  henceforth  a  prophet  and  pro- 
moter of  O  jib  way  song.  And  let  me  assure  you  that 
in  your  accompaniment  you  have  caught  the  spirit  of 
the  tune  with  remarkable  success.  Is  it  not  so,  Strong- 
heart?" 

218 


STRONGHEART 

"Yes,"  said  the  Ojibway,  "the  accompaniment  com- 
pletes the  song.  It  polishes  the  raw  material,  if  that 
is  a  proper  way  to  speak  of  music,  and  makes  of  it 
something  of  which  the  Indian  was  incapable." 

"Which  is  to  say,"  said  Dorothy,  "that  the  Ojibway 
melody  has  art  value." 

Thorne  hastened  to  coincide  with  this  view,  and 
expressed  himself  with  such  excess  of  admiration  for 
the  song,  the  singer,  the  words,  and  the  accompani- 
ment, that  both  Strongheart  and  Dorothy  felt  ashamed 
for  him.  The  utter  lack  of  sincerity  beneath  his  mawk- 
ish flattery  was  death  to  conversation  on  the  subject, 
and  Dorothy  turned  the  talk  skilfully  to  other  mat- 
ters. This  having  been  accomplished,  Strongheart 
considered  that  he  had  been  dismissed,  but  when  he 
made  as  though  he  would  depart,  Dorothy  frankly 
begged  him  to  stay.  This  was  unusual.  It  was  their 
ordinary  procedure  to  work  either  until  Strongheart 
had  to  attend  to  his  regular  duties,  or  until  Dorothy 
was  fatigued;  and  his  motion  to  adjourn  had  always 
been  regarded  by  her  as  undebatable.  In  this  instance, 
although  her  words  conveyed  no  hint  of  a  special 
purpose  in  requiring  his  presence,  he  felt  that  she  did 
require  it,  and  therefore  nothing  could  have  induced 
him  to  depart.  As  gracefully  as  possible  he  yielded  to 
her  request,  and  Dorothy  talked  vivaciously  of  foot- 
ball, that  being  the  only  topic  of  common  interest  to 
her  visitors,  although  there  was  much  emptiness  in 
reminiscences  of  a  season  long  past,  and  forecasts  of 
a  season  long  in  the  future.  Of  course  there  were 
some  other  subjects  lightly  touched  in  the  hour  that 

219 


STRONGHEART 

followed,  but  not  one  of  the  three  found  the  time 
agreeable,  and  when  at  length  Thorne  arose  to  go, 
Dorothy  made  no  effort  to  detain  him.  She  was  equal- 
ly ready  now  to  dispense  with  the  Indian's  presence, 
but  Strongheart  felt  just  a  little  bewilderment  at  the 
evident  gratitude  that  shone  in  her  eyes  when  she  said 
"Good  night." 

So  the  young  men  departed  together,  but  their  ways 
lay  in  different  directions,  and  each  pursued  his  reflec- 
tions alone.  Thorne  was  in  a  rage.  The  jealousy  that 
had  burst  into  flame  when  he  learned  that  Dick  Liv- 
ingston was  writing  letters  to  Dorothy  Nelson,  flared 
up  again  and  burned  now  about  Strongheart,  as  if  the 
Indian  were  tied  to  the  stake  and  fagots  piled  around 
him,  which  lamentable  state  of  things  Thorne  devoutly 
wished  might  be  the  case.  From  the  time  when  the 
students  reassembled  for  the  academic  year,  Thorne 
had  studied  the  conduct  of  Livingston  and  Dorothy, 
whenever  he  saw  them  together,  more  faithfully  than 
he  did  any  of  his  text-books,  and  he  had  come  to  the 
firm  conviction  that,  if  love  were  there,  it  was  as  yet 
on  one  side  only.  That  Dorothy's  attitude  toward  her 
brother's  chum  was  one  of  unstinted  but  unsentimental 
friendship,  was  too  palpable  to  admit  of  a  doubt,  and 
Thorne  had  taken  courage  accordingly,  an'd  had  car- 
ried on  his  determined  suit  with  admirable  patience, 
persuaded  by  Dorothy's  persistent  refusal  to  take  him 
seriously,  that  he  must  pursue  a  long,  unaggressive 
campaign  before  it  would  be  prudent  again  to  attempt 
a  direct  appeal.  And  now  he  had  found  her  absorbed 
in  music  and  poetry  with  Strongheart. 

220 


STRONGHEART 

"Damn  the  redskin!"  said  Thorne,  softly,  as  soon 
as  he  had  parted  from  Strongheart.  "Is  it  possible 
that  he  has  fascinated  her?  Such  things  have  hap- 
pened often  enough,  and  Dorothy,  with  her  notions 
about  humanity,  might  be  psychologically  in  tune  for 
just  such  an  influence  as  this  Indian  undoubtedly  ex- 
ercises over  many  persons." 

He  viewed  and  reviewed  this  matter  for  many  a 
block  in  his  walk  to  his  destination. 

"No,"  he  concluded,  after  vigorous  exercise  had 
cooled  his  passion,  "she's  not  in  love  with  him.  She 
wouldn't  work  at  those  songs  in  that  way  if  she  were. 
It's  just  one  of  her  fads.  He  and  his  tunes  appeal  to 
the  poetry  in  her,  and  there's  nothing  in  her  circum- 
stances to  prevent  her  from  giving  full  swinr  to  the 
fancy  of  the  moment.  The  plain  fact  is,  just  the  same, 
that  I  haven't  yet  made  any  impression  on  her,  but 
it's  not  because  of  Strongheart.  The  Indian  was  in 
the  way  this  evening,  but  he's  not  to  be  regarded  as  a 
permanent  factor  in  the  situation." 

Thorne  was  not  wholly  in  error.  Let  there  be  no 
misapprehension  on  that  score.  Dorothy  was  not  con- 
sciously in  love,  either  with  Livingston  or  with  Strong- 
heart;  she  liked  Dick  with  all  the  whole-heartedness 
of  a  loyal  friend ;  she  admired  the  Ojibway,  and  sym- 
pathized with  him  in  a  way  that  was  to  startle  him 
when,  presently,  he  discovered  it ;  but  she  did  not  love 
him — not  yet. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

AN   EXPERIMENT  THAT   FAILED 

The  next  evening  when  Dorothy  and  Strr  gheart 
worked  at  music  together  they  were  uninf  rupted, 
and,  at  the  end  of  a  long  and  arduous  se$.:?on,  the 
Ojibway  said,  "I  am  more  and  more  amaze!  at  your 
devotion  to  this  matter,  Miss  Nelson.  I  really  think 
my  people  owe  you  a  debt  of  gratitude  for  putting 
their  songs  in  permanent  form." 

"I  have  told  you,"  she  responded,  "how  I  minister 
to  my  own  pleasure  in  this,  and  the  work  is  too  slight 
to  justify  even  a  hint  of  gratitude.  It  pales  into  such 
utter  insignificance  compared  with  yours.  Even  if  I 
did  not  love  the  melodies,  why  should  I  not  give  a 
few  hours  to  preserve  those  you  are  familiar  with? 
Such  passing  effort  should  not  be  mentioned  by  you 
who  are  devoting  your  whole  life  to  your  people." 

Well  for  Strongheart  that  the  inheritance  of  re- 
pression was  his  in  full  measure,  for  her  words  came 
to  him  as  a  violent  shock.  Devoted  to  his  people — his 
whole  life — "What !"  cried  his  soul,  "is  all  this  atmos- 
phere of  elegance,  all  this  acquisition  of  learning,  all 
this  adaptation  to  the  ways  of  civilization  to  be  aban- 
doned for  the  sake  of  those  helpless,  unprogressive, 
unappreciative  people  who  are  contented  in  their  sim- 

223 


STRONGHEART 

pie  wilderness  life?  Is  the  highest  possible  develop- 
ment  of  an  individual  to  be  sacrificed  to  the  conjec- 
tural advancement  of  a  handful  of  unaspiring  people 
a  single  pace  or  two  toward  the  broader  life? 

"Must  I  be  crushed?"  cried  the  soul,  "just  as  I  am 
learning  what  delights  are  mine  by  the  power  to 
acquire  them?" 

And  the  body  cried,  "Must  I  give  up  creature  com- 
forts as  a  concession  to  those  who  do  not  know  them, 
or  want  them?" 

And  the  heart  cried,  "Must  I  wither  in  the  wilder- 
ness for  the  lack  of  the  light  from  her  eyes  ?" 

And,  biting  deep  while  all  this  rebellion  stormed  in 
the  secret  places  of  his  being,  was  humiliation,  bitter 
shame,  for  Strongheart  recognized  that  he  had  forgot- 
ten his  people.  He  had  become  one  of  these  by  whom 
he  was  now  surrounded ;  no  need  that  they  should  tell 
him  so,  as  often  they  did  directly  and  indirectly,  for 
he  knew  it!  Intellectually:  he  was  in  the  van,  if  not 
the  actual  leader,  in  all  his  classrooms.  Physically: 
he  was  the  admiration  and  despair  of  the  athletes. 
Socially:  he  was  received  everywhere  on  even  terms 
with  the  white  students — no !  there  was  a  distinction, 
and  it  was  in  his  favor;  he  was  not  only  welcomed, 
but  made  much  of,  flattered,  petted,  made  to  feel  that 
he  was  especially  interesting.  Eliminating  the  flattery 
and  the  petting,  he  received  here  a  recognition  of  his 
worth  that  his  own  people  had  denied  him ;  and  they 
had  denied  him  not  from  petty  jealousy,  but  because 
his  was  a  worth  they  were  incapable  of  appreciating. 
Yet  it  was  these  people  who,  in  the  trustful  simplicity 

223 


STRONGHEART 

of  their  hearts,  had  sacrificed  that  he  might  go  to  the 
East  and  learn  wisdom  for  their  protection. 

The  mind  grasps  a  hundred  reflections  like  these  as 
the  eye  perceives  a  broad  landscape  from  a  hill  top. 
Strongl*eart  experienced  not  only  bitter  rebellion,  and 
bitterer  shame,  while  Dorothy  was  speaking,  but  a 
quaking  fear  lest  something  in  his  demeanor  apprise 
her  that  he  was  utterly  unworthy  the  encomium  she 
passed  upon  him.  How  could  he  hope  to  be  tolerated 
in  her  presence  if  she  should  discover  his  weakness, 
his  selfishness?  How  could  he  continue  to  worship 
her  while  consciously  unworthy  of  her  respect?  That 
was  the  vital  question.  All  else  sank  into  insignifi- 
cance beside  it,  and  instantly  Strongheart's  resolution 
was  taken.  He  would  be  worthy  of  her  respect,  and 
to  that  end  he  would  henceforth  bear  steadily  in  mind 
that  these  halcyon  days  in  the  land  of  culture  and 
learning  were  but  prepayment  of  the  services  he  must 
and  would  render  to  his  helpless,  trusting  people. 

Dorothy  suspected  nothing  of  the  commotion  in  her 
companion's  heart,  for  just  then  she  was  too  much 
perturbed  on  her  own  account  by  what  she  had  nerved 
herself  to  say,  to  be  as  sensitive  to  his  mood  as  other- 
wise she  might  have  been. 

"I  must  tell  you,  Strongheart,"  she  was  saying,  "that 
I've  been  wishing  for  a  long  time  that  I  could  be  of 
some  real  service  to  you  and  your  people.  I  have 
hesitated  to  tell  you  what  was  in  my  mind,  or  even  to 
hint  at  it,  for  fear  you  might  misunderstand  and  be 
offended,  but  I'm  going  to  be  brave  now  and  speak 
plainly.  I  hope  you  won't  be  hurt?" 

224 


STRONGHEART 

The  rising  inflection  with  which  she  finished  helped 
him  to  keep  mastery  over  himself,  for  she  seemed  to 
ask  a  question  that  required  an  answer. 

"It  is  possible,  I  suppose,  that  I  shall  not  understand 
you,"  said  he,  huskily,  "but  it  is  not  possible  that 
you  could  say  anything  that  would  be  offensive  to 
me.  If  I  do  not  understand,  it  will  be  my  fault,  not 
yours." 

"I  have  been  thinking  of  what  things  cost,  Strong- 
heart,"  she  began,  looking  frankly  at  him.  "It  doesn't 
seem  to  matter  what  our  ideals  are,  the  question  of 
cost  has  to  be  considered,  and  I  don't  need  to  be  told 
that  your  people  have  to  contrive  more  or  less  to  send 
you  here.  It  is  so,  isn't  it?" 

"They  thought  it  all  over,  Miss  Nelson.  Yes,  it  is 
so,  but  there  is  money  enough  for  the  purpose.  They 
look  on  it  as  an  investment." 

"I  understand,  and  if  you  could  make  the  burden, 
light  as  it  may  be,  lighter  for  them,  you  would  do  it, 
wouldn't  you  ?  Especially  if  there  were  a  way  to  earn 
money  and  at  the  same  time  set  people  to  thinking 
about  the  Indians?  It  seems  that  it  is  only  necessary 
for  us  whites  to  become  acquainted  with  an  Indian  to 
undergo  at  once  a  considerable  mental  revolution.  It 
is  a  quick  educational  process,  and  the  more  whites 
there  are  who  come  to  a  more  correct  perception  of 
Indian  character  and  capacity,  even  though  their 
knowledge  be  superficial,  the  better  it  would  be  for  the 
Indians,  wouldn't  it?" 

"So  far  as  your  argument  is  concerned,  I  concede  its 
soundness,"  said  Strongheart,  smiling.  "I  am  not 

225 


STRON GHEART 

averse  to  earning  money.  What  is  the  method  you 
would  suggest?" 

Dorothy  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief.  "That  seems  to 
break  the  ice,"  she  said.  "You  know  how  I  am  in- 
terested in  betterment  work  among  the  poor  of  the 
city.  It  brings  me  in  contact  with  many  earnest,  ad- 
mirable people,  and  also,  from  time  to  time,  with  per- 
sons of  great  wealth  who  are  not  so  earnest  but  who 
have  their  uses  in  the  world  by  reason  of  their  means. 
It  is  the  wealthy  women  I  am  thinking  of — not  to  ask 
anything  in  charity,"  she  hastened  to  add,  as  she 
thought  she  detected  a  flash  of  repugnance  in  his  eyes. 
"Fashionable  women,"  she  continued,  "vie  with  each 
other  in  furnishing  novel  entertainments  to  their  guests 
at  dinner  parties  and  receptions.  I  think  an  Indian  in 
ancient  costume,  who  could  sing  lovely  songs  and  con- 
verse intelligently,  might  be  taken  up  by  society  women 
and  become  what  is  sometimes  called  a  drawing-room 
fad.  There  are  many  persons  of  great  distinction, 
Strongheart,  who  strive  for  these  society  engagements 
because  they  are  so  profitable  when  once  the  artist  is 
in  vogue.  I  believe  I  might  help  you  to  some  engage- 
ments." 

"Now  let  me  see  if  I  thoroughly  understand,"  said 
Strongheart.  "You  would  have  me  wear  my  feathers 
and  buckskin,  and  sing  these  songs  we  have  been 
working  over,  for  pay." 

"Yes,  that  is  it.  You  would  be  ostensibly  a  guest ; 
in  reality  a  paid  entertainer.  I  feel  confident  it  would 
prove  to  be  very  remunerative,  and  it  would  not  inter- 
fere at  all  with  your  studies.  It  would  be  'off'  time, 

226 


STRONGHEART 

such  as  you  now  give  to  the  preservation  of  the  mel- 
odies." 

Strongheart  reflected  a  moment.  Then  said  he, 
"Miss  Nelson,  I  do  not  need  to  think  of  it.  You  say 
you  have  thought  it  all  out,  and  that  should  be  enough. 
If  you  recommend  it,  I'll  try." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Dorothy,  and  she  went  on  to  tell 
him  of  a  way  by  which  the  idea  could  be  tested.  Doro- 
thy had  a  friend,  Mrs.  Kirk,  whose  at-homes  were 
famous  for  the  introduction  of  celebrities,  especially 
those  of  the  musical  order.  Mrs.  Kirk  did  not  pay  for 
the  entertainments  furnished  on  these  occasions,  for, 
from  her  point  of  view,  and  apparently  from  that  of 
many  musicians,  readers,  and  so  forth,  an  appearance 
at  her  house  was  compensation  in  itself,  an  advertise- 
ment, so  to  speak,  subsequent  engagements  depending 
on  success  there.  Dorothy  would  arrange  for  Strong- 
heart's  appearance  at  Mrs.  Kirk's,  indeed  she  had 
already  sounded  that  gracious  lion-hunter,  and  had 
found  her  eager  for  the  prestige  of  being  the  first  to 
present  a  real  live  Indian  to  her  guests.  Dorothy  did 
not  put  it  in  just  this  way  to  Strongheart,  but  she  did 
assure  him  that  both  she  and  Mrs.  Kirk  would  make 
special  efforts  to  have  certain  fashionable  women  of 
vast  wealth  present  at  the  function  in  the  hope  that 
one  or  more  of  them  would  be  inspired  to  "take  up" 
the  Indian.  There  were  Mrs.  Goldback,  and  Mrs. 
Van  Somebody,  especially ;  both  these  laclies  had  been 
known  to  pay  extravagant  fees  to  entertainers,  and 
each  had  a  large  following.  They  were  on  Mrs. 
Kirk's  list,  and  she  would  make  certain  of  their  pres- 

227 


STRONGHEART 

ence  to  hear  Strongheart;  that  is,  she  would  invite 
him  to  come  on  the  day  when  they  were  certain  to  call. 
On  this  occasion  Dorothy  would  play  his  accompani- 
ments. She  suggested  that  he  sing  the  three  songs  to 
which  he  had  adapted  English  words,  first  in  the  O jib- 
way  manner,  with  the  drum,  and  then  in  English,  with 
the  pianoforte.  If  he  should  eventually  get  regular 
engagements,  it  would  be  advisable,  of  course,  to  em- 
ploy a  professional  accompanist,  or  arrange  with  one 
of  his  musical  fellow  students  to  play  for  him. 

To  all  of  this  Strongheart  assented  in  perfect  faith 
that  Dorothy  knew  best.  What  was  it  to  sing  for  peo- 
ple? He  had  done  so  under  trying  conditions  at  the 
Academy,  under  more  trying  conditions  in  Thome's 
presence.  Why,  not,  then,  to  a  room  full  of  fashion- 
able persons?  If  they  wished  to  pay  him,  so  much  the 
better,  and  if  incidentally  a  few  should  be  influenced 
to  a  truer  view  of  the  Indian  people,  so  much  the 
better  still.  It  all  seemed  reasonable,  the  only  shadow 
being  the  necessity,  which  he  did  not  presume  to  ques- 
tion, of  arranging  for  a  strange  accompanist  if  the 
scheme  should  develop  into  a  business  matter. 

There  were  some  things  in  the  discussion  with  Mrs. 
Kirk  that  Dorothy  did  not  deem  it  necessary  to  report 
to  Strongheart. 

"I  want  to  be  perfectly  clear  about  it  all,  my  dear," 
said  Mrs.  Kirk.  "Your  Indian  sings  and  looks  pic- 
turesque. He  doesn't  give  a  lecture,  or  talk  unless  he's 
spoken  to.  Is  that  so  ?" 

Admirably  plain  speech,  but  Dorothy,  nevertheless, 
failed  to  grasp  its  full  meaning.  "Surely,  Mrs.  Kirk," 

228 


STRONGHEART 

she  answered,  "not  only  is  it  contrary  to  Indian  dispo- 
sition to  volunteer  remarks,  but  Mr.  Strongheart  is  a 
cultivated  gentleman,  and  it  is  inconceivable  that  he 
would  err — " 

"Fudge,  not  to  say  fiddlesticks!"  interrupted  Mrs. 
Kirk.  "You  miss  the  point  altogether,  my  dear.  As 
long  as  your  Indian  did  not  commit  any  vulgar  atroc- 
ity, such  as  lighting  a  match  on  the  piano,  for  example, 
he  might  be  the  most  untutored,  stupidest  savage  you 
please.  It's  the  very  fact  that  he's  a  cultivated  gen- 
tleman that  introduces  an  element  of  danger.  It  won't 
do  at  all  for  him  to  make  people  think.  Come  now, 
you  know  our  weaknesses  quite  as  well  as  I  do,  my 
dear.  It  isn't  that  we  can't  think,  but  that  we  prefer  not 
to.  My  friends  want  to  be  entertained,  that  and  noth- 
ing more.  Can  you  guarantee  your  Indian  for  that?" 

"Well,"  Dorothy  replied  dubiously,  "I  must  confess 
that  Strongheart's  songs  have  made  me  think  a  great 
deal." 

"Dorothy,  my  dear,  you  don't  count.  You  would  let 
anything  set  you  to  thinking.  All  I  ask  is  to  be 
assured  that  the  Indian  poses  simply  as  an  entertainer. 
He  looks  interesting  and  queer — handsome,  you  say? 
Very  well,  that's  an  asset  when  judiciously  employed 
— and  he  sings  his  songs.  After  that  he  says  yea  yea, 
and  nay  nay,  if  people  ask  questions.  He  has  no  piece 
to  speak,  no  theories,  no  appeal — " 

"Oh  dear,  no !"  cried  Dorothy,  "he  will  be  the  enter- 
tainer and  nothing  more,  but  if  his  entertainment 
makes  people  think  without  their  being  aware  of  it,  it 
won't  do  any  harm,  will  it?" 

229 


Mrs.  Kirk  looked  with  an  expression  of  regretful 
despair  at  her  enthusiastic  young  friend. 

"Oh,  Dorothy,  Dorothy,"  she  sighed,  "what  a  suc- 
cess you  could  be  in  society  if  your  exquisite  beauty 
were  not  alloyed  with  so  much  gray  matter!  I  really 
suspect  you  of  some  subtle  designs  against  the  brains 
of  my  acquaintances.  Will  you  never  learn  that  the 
women  I  associate  with  insist  that  their  thinking  shall 
be  done  for  them  ?  and  that  they  positively  can't  afford 
to  have  their  feelings  stirred?  Touch  the  surface, 
Dorothy  dear,  not  a  pin-prick  deeper  than  the  surface, 
if  you  would  succeed.  But  never  mind,  we'll  try  your 
Indian,  and  I  will  assure  Mrs.  Goldback  and  Mrs.  Van 
Somebody  on  your  unimpeachable  authority  that  the 
songs  are  worth  while  for  their  own  sake,  and  that 
the  Indian  is  handsome,  romantic,  and  the  greatest  of 
novelties.  And  I'll  have  some  other  people  here,  some 
from  the  literary  and  artistic  set,  you  know,  who  will 
make  things  comfortable  for  you." 

It  took  no  little  manoeuvring  on  the  part  of  Mrs. 
Kirk  to  complete  the  arrangements  to  her  liking,  for 
the  previous  engagements  of  Mrs.  Goldback  and  Mrs. 
Van  Somebody  had  to  be  regarded;  but  a  day  was 
found  some  weeks  after  Dorothy  obtained  Strong- 
heart's  consent  to  sing,  when  both  the  social  leaders 
could  be  present,  and  on  that  day  Strongheart  donned 
his  ancient  costume,  hid  himself  in  a  closed  carriage, 
and  was  conveyed  to  Mrs.  Kirk's  at-home. 

So  far  as  numbers  were  concerned  the  function  was 
a  brilliant  success,  and  Mrs.  Kirk  confessed  to  Doro- 
thy that  it  was  undoubtedly  the  presence  of  "the 

230 


STRONGHEART 

chief,"  as  she  called  Strongheart,  that  induced  so  many 
to  come.  Certainly  they  all  seemed  interested  in  the 
Indian.  He  was  ever  the  center  of  a  group  wherein 
some  one  person  had  questions  to  ask.  What  was  his 
tribe  ?  Where  did  he  live  ?  Had  he  ever  been  in  battle 
with  whites,  or  with  other  Indians?  Did  his  people 
still  live  in  tents?  Do  they  still  make  those  beautiful 
Navajo  blankets  ?  What !  not  make  blankets  ?  Why ! 
we  thought — oh !  the  Navajos  live  twenty-five  hundred 
miles  south  of  the  Ob — Ob — what?  oh!  Ojibways. 
So  hard,  these  Indian  names.  Yes  ?  the  Navajos  speak 
a  different  language?  Why!  we  thought  all  the  In- 
dians spoke  the  same  language.  How  interesting! 
Lucy,  dear,  he  says  the  decorative  art  characteristic  of 
his  people  consists  in  porcupine-quill  work,  such  as 
you  see  on  his  shoes,  and  on  the  bands  around  his — 
what  do  you  call  the  thing  you  wear  on  your  head? 
Bonnet !  dear  me !  What  is  this  material  ?  Buck- 
skin ?  Please,  Mr.  Strongheart,  pardon  our  ignorance, 
but  what  is  buckskin  ?  Oh !  deerskin.  How  interest- 
ing. Did  you  make  it  yourself?  It's  simply  beautiful. 
See,  Mrs.  Dabster,  how  exquisitely  these  beads  are 
worked.  What  nice  perception  of  color  harmonies. 
Oh,  Mr.  Strongheart,  would  you  mind  writing  your 
name,  your  real,  Indian  name,  in  my  book? 

The  Ojibway  endured  it  tranquilly,  for,  after  all, 
this  was  but  meeting  en  masse  the  questions  to  which 
he  had  been  accustomed  from  most  persons  whom  he 
met  individually.  He  was  patient  with  ignorance, 
amused  at  times,  and  altogether  well  content,  for  un- 
derneath all  the  gabble  there  was  the  flattery  of  espe- 

231 


STRONGHEART 

cial  interest  in  him,  and,  more  than  all,  this  was  what 
Dorothy  wished.  She  had  planned  it;  therefore  it 
must  be  right. 

As  for  Dorothy,  her  admiration  for  the  Indian  deep- 
ened as  she  saw  how  perfectly  he  maintained  his  poise. 
She  was  not  a  little  anxious  when  she  perceived  that 
her  protege,  so  to  call  him,  had  become  rather  a  cheap 
sensation,  and  she  wished  that  he  could  have  been 
brought  forward  with  his  songs  soon  after  his  arrival,  so 
as  to  make  the  first  impression  a  serious  one,  but  in  that 
matter  Mrs.  Kirk  ruled  otherwise,  and  Mrs.  Kirk  knew 
what  she  was  about.  Strongheart  was  her  trump  card 
and  must,  of  course,  be  played  last.  Meantime  Doro- 
thy brought  her  special  friends  to  be  introduced  to  the 
Ojibway,  and  they  gave  momentary  relief  from  the 
pressure  of  childish  questions;  and  there  was  such 
relief  as  made  Strongheart's  eyes  glisten  in  the  pres- 
ence of  a  man  who  said  "Bozho,  neezhe"  (how  do  you 
do,  friend)  and  spoke  with  quiet  enthusiasm  of  a  hunt- 
ing trip  he  had  enjoyed  with  an  Ojibway  guide  in  the 
region  north  of  Superior. 

From  time  to  time  somebody  played  noisily,  and 
probably  well,  on  the  pianoforte;  once  a  young  girl, 
who  might  have  been  pretty  if  her  eyes  had  not  told 
too  plainly  of  nervous  overstrain,  drew  mournful 
strains  from  a  'cello ;  a  German  tenor  sang  the  princi- 
pal air  in  Gounod's  "Faust"  in  Italian,  and  delivered 
himself  of  the  high  C  with  as  much  force  as  if  he 
were  on  the  stage  of  the  Metropolitan,  a  position  in 
the  operatic  world  he  never  attained ;  an  exquisitely 
garbed  young  woman  recited  "The  Absent-minded 

232 


STRONGHEART 

Beggar,"  and  brought  out  its  "Pye,  pye,  pye,"  with 
intense  feeling,  perhaps,  poor  thing,  because  her  dress 
represented  the  hard  pinched  savings  of  the  Winter; 
and  in  spite  of  all  these  diversions,  the  guests  lingered 
and  applauded  politely.  Nothing  could  have  been  a 
clearer  demonstration  of  the  Indian's  value  as  an 
attraction.  All  were  waiting  to  hear  him.  Dorothy 
grew  heartsick  over  the  delay;  her  soul  revolted  at 
posing  Strongheart  as  a  freak,  and  she  regretted  with 
no  little  bitterness  that  she  had  not  foreseen  this  phase 
of  the  event.  It  was  growing  late.  Here  and  there  a 
man  was  caught  in  the  act  of  consulting  his  watch, 
and  when  Mrs.  Kirk  was  the  detective,  she  pounced  on 
the  abashed  offender  and  begged  effectively  that  he 
postpone  other  matters  for  just  a  few  minutes  longer. 
The  Indian's  songs  would  be  such  a  treat!  Strong- 
heart  would  surely  sing  in  a  minute  or  two. 

Why  did  not  Mrs.  Kirk  bring  Strongheart  forward 
when  the  interest  was  at  its  height  ?  Bless  your  inno- 
cent soul !  because  the  real  stars  of  the  occasion  had 
not  arrived.  The  chief  event  of  the  day  awaited  the 
presence  of  Mrs.  Goldback  and  Mrs.  Van  Somebody. 

At  last  Mrs.  Kirk  murmured  to  Dorothy,  "It's  pro- 
voking enough!  They  said  so  positively  that  they'd 
come!  I  sha'n't  be  able  to  hold  this  crowd  another 
minute.  Better  put  the  chief  on.  Don't  you  think  so  ?" 

"Oh,  yes !"  Dorothy  answered,  "by  all  means.  Let's 
have  it  over  with." 

So  Dorothy  and  Strongheart  moved  up  to  the  piano- 
forte, took  possession,  and  one  after  the  other,  modest- 
ly, gracefully,  the  three  songs  sweetened  the  air  of  the 

233 


STRONGHEART 

drawing-room.  There  was  then  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
that  almost  repaid  Dorothy  for  the  agony  she  had 
suffered  during  the  exhibition  of  the  Ojibway.  The 
melo-lies  went  straight  to  the  hearts  of  many,  if  not 
all  the  people.  One,  a  lullaby,  had  to  be  repeated  at 
once,  and  although  the  singing  was  the  signal  for  a 
general  breaking  up  of  the  gathering,  a  great  propor- 
tion of  the  guests  delayed  their  departure  that  they 
might  press  to  the  pianoforte  and  tell  Strongheart  how 
much  they  enjoyed  the  music  and  how  surprised  they 
were;  to  ask  if  the  songs  were  published;  if  they 
could  by  any  means  get  copies;  if  they  were  really, 
indubitably  Indian  and  not  taught  to  the  Ojibways  by 
white  musicians ;  and  so  on,  a  world  of  ignorance,  but 
pardonable,  a  world  of  genuine  enthusiasm,  with  here 
and  there  the  gratifying  contrast  of  intelligent  sympa- 
thy. Strongheart  himself  was  elated.  He  could  feel 
the  genuineness  of  the  demonstration,  and  forgive  such 
part  of  it  as  was  superficial  and  for  the  moment  only. 
Surely,  Dorothy  had  been  right  in  maintaining  that 
these  simple  melodies  had  a  special  appeal.  He  turned 
to  her,  his  face  glowing,  after  the  last  guest  had  de- 
parted. 

"You  must  be  tired  to  death,"  she  said  quickly. 
"Aren't  you  glad  it's  over  ?" 

"Tired !"  he  echoed,  "why  should  I  be  tired  ?  The 
effort  is  nothing  to  a  half  at  football.  It  seemed  to  me 
the  people  were  well  pleased." 

Before  Dorothy  could  answer,  Mrs.  Kirk,  who  was 
approaching,  wheeled  about  suddenly,  having  heard 
familiar  voices,  and  began  to  gush  in  the  approved 

231 


5  T  R  O  N  G  H E  A  R  T 

society  manner  with  no  less  personages  than  Mrs 
Goldback  and  Mrs.  Van  Somebody. 

"Such  a  round !"  sighed  Mrs.  Goldback. 

"We  were  so  afraid  we  should  be  too  late,"  asserted 
Mrs.  Van  Somebody. 

Mrs.  Kirk'understood.  No  need  to  tell  her  that  the 
social  season  was  nearing  its  end,  and  that  all  the 
devotees  of  fashion  were  driven  to  distraction  by  the 
pressure  of  engagements  that  filled  every  day  to  reple- 
tion. It  was  equally  unnecessary  for  her  callers  to 
confess  that,  in  planning  the  round  that  day,  they  had 
left  Mrs.  Kirk's  function  to  the  last,  as  the  least  im- 
portant, and  that  they  had  so  gauged  their  time  as  to 
be  quite  certain  that  all  the  special  features  of  enter- 
tainment would  have  been  finished  before  their  arrival. 
It  was  plain  as  print  that  these  eagerly  sought  dames 
had  not  been  aroused  to  any  interest  whatever  in  the 
Indian  and  his  songs,  and  that  in  their  hearts  they 
were  congratulating  themselves  that  they  had  escaped 
the  boredom  of  listening  to  them.  So,  having  these 
considerations  clearly  in  mind,  Mrs.  Kirk  said : 

"Oh,  I  am  so  glad,  for  you  are  wonderfully  fortu- 
nate. I  was  on  pins  and  needles  lest  you  should  come 
early,  for  we  had  such  a  crush!  And  now  you  can 
have  the  chief  all  to  yourselves.  I  am  sure  the  chief 
won't  mind  singing  just  one  of  his  songs  again,  will 
you  ?"  and  she  smiled  upon  Strongheart  as  she  ushered 
the  great  ladies  into  the  drawing-room. 

"With  pleasure,  if  you  wish,  Mrs.  Kirk,"  said 
Strongheart. 

Such  disappointment  as  the  newcomers  felt  was 
235 


STRONGHEART 

masked,  when  Strongheart  was  presented  to  them, 
under  a  display  of  mild  curiosity,  and  Mrs.  Goldback 
murmured  "So  nice,"  as  she  sank  into  an  easy  chair. 
Perhaps  it  took  all  Mrs.  Van  Somebody's  remaining/ 
strength  to  overcome  her  chagrin,  for  she  sat  down 
without  a  word.  Dorothy  was  already  at  the  piano- 
forte, her  face  as  inexpressive  as  marble.  "What  shall 
it  be,  Strongheart?"  she  asked. 

"Why,"  he  answered,  "the  other  ladies  seemed  to 
like  the  lullaby  best.  Will  that  do?" 

"Certainly,"  and  Dorothy  struck  the  keynote. 

Strongheart  did  not  use  the  drum  in  the  lullaby, 
but  sang  the  O  jib  way  words  first,  and  followed  them 
with  his  version  in  English,  thus  singing  the  tender 
melody  twice  through: 

Close  your  bright  eyes,  my  baby  dear, 
The  spider  with  his  web  is  near; 
He'll  spin  it  'cross  your  eyes,  baby  dear. 
Ayah!  ayah!  Go  sleep,  my  baby,  go  sleep. 
The  spider  with  his  web  is  here,  baby  dear, 
Ayah,  ah! 

He  raised  his  voice  hardly  above  a  tuneful  whisper, 
singing  more  softly  and  feelingly  than  Dorothy  ever 
had  heard  him  before.  It  was  his  instinctive  percep- 
tion of  the  vocal  proprieties  of  the  occasion,  that  is, 
the  audience  was  small,  very  near,  and  there  was 
nothing  to  distract  attention  from  the  song,  as  gentle 
and  simple  a  tune  as  ever  came  from  a  white  woman's 
lips  to  soothe  her  child.  The  instant  the  last  tone  died 

236 


away,  Mrs.  Goldback  jumped  from  her  chair  as  if  she 
were  built  on  springs  and  somebody  had  pressed  the 
button. 

"Isn't  it  wild  and  weird!"  she  cried  with  her  best 
assumption  of  enthusiasm.  "Good-bye,  Mrs.  Kirk. 
So  much  obliged." 

"It  is  so  extraordinary,  Mrs.  Kirk,"  said  Mrs.  Van 
Somebody,  "how  you  pick  up  such  original  novelties. 
Each  one  is  more  unique  than  the  others.  Your  friends 
are  very  fortunate.  Thank  you  so  much." 

In  just  a  trifle  more  than  three  minutes  from  the 
time  they  entered  Mrs.  Kirk's  home,  they  were  out  of 
it,  one  more  social  obligation  discharged. 

Mrs.  Kirk  accompanied  them  even  to  the  outer  door, 
contributing  her  full  share  to  the  lies  of  the  moment. 
Viewed  with  the  scientific  calmness  of  a  sociologist,  it 
was  full  of  enlightenment;  three  fashionable  women, 
each  lying  to  the  fullest  extent  possible  within  the  limit 
of  time,  each  knowing  that  the  others  were  lying,  and 
each  conscious  that  the  others  knew  that  she  was  lying. 
As  we  are  not  sociologists,  let  us  flee  from  such  un- 
pleasant associations. 

Strongheart  stood  as  if  rooted  to  the  floor,  gazing 
after  the  departing  visitors,  so  startled  from  his  native 
poise  that  his  eyes  fairly  blazed  with  amazement. 

"'Wild  and  weird!'"  he  repeated  softly.  "Good 
God!" 

Recollecting  himself  suddenly,  with  a  pang  of  re- 
morse he  turned  to  Dorothy.  "I  beg  your  pardon, 
Miss  Nelson,"  said  he,  and  found  fresh  cause  for 
amazement  when  he  saw  her,  for  she  was  crying. 

237 


STRONGHEART 

She  had  risen,  but  was  still  before  the  keyboard,  her 
face  turned  from  him,  her  handkerchief  pressed  to  her 
eyes.  At  the  sound  of  his  voice,  she  looked  around 
quickly,  speaking  through  her  tears. 

"Don't!  don't  1"  she  stammered;  "how  can  you  ever 
forgive  me  for  subjecting  you  to  such  a  humiliating 
experience  ?" 

Then  she  turned  her  head  away  again  and  sought 
to  control  herself.  Strongheart's  amazement  and  un- 
speakable disgust  at  the  shallowness  of  the  society 
women  were  swept  away  in  a  torrent  of  sympathy  for 
Dorothy,  and  keen  appreciation  of  her  emotion.  Of 
course  she  must  suffer.  If  he,  a  man  of  the  wilder- 
ness, felt  cut  to  the  quick  by  the  insolent  rejection  of 
the  finest  he  had  to  offer,  how  tenfold  worse  must  she 
feel,  she,  a  woman  of  the  most  delicate  cultivation, 
who  had  been  so  ready  to  recognize  the  beauty  of  the 
Indian  art,  and  so  eager  to  bring  it  to  the  attention  of 
others  of  her  people.  He  understood  her  at  that  mo- 
ment as  thoroughly  as  Mrs.  Goldback  had  misunder- 
stood his  music,  and  his  heart  swelled  with  a  yearning 
to  comfort  that  was  almost  irresistible.  His  arms 
strained  with  the  impulse  to  enfold  her,  but  something 
of  which  he  was  not  fully  aware  held  him  motionless ; 
it  might  have  been  the  reverence  for  womanhood 
which  every  honest  man  fears  to  profane ;  it  might 
have  been  this,  mingled  with  his  own  personal  wor- 
ship of  this  particular  woman,  which  bade  him  wait 
iest  the  idol  repudiate  his  tribute.  And  then  Mrs. 
Kirk  was  heard  returning. 

She  found  Dorothy  gathering  up  the  musk,  and 
238 


STRONGHEART 

Strongheart  at  some  distance  from  her,  looking  out  of 
a  window. 

"Well,"  said  the  hostess,  "we  made  them  hear  some- 
thing, anywa>,  but  I'm  afraid  we  must  confess  to 
failure,  Dorothy,  my  dear." 

"Failure!"  exclaimed  Dorothy,  hotly.  "Did  you 
hear  what  they  said  ?" 

"Something  deliciously  absurd,  wasn't  it?  Oh, 
yes !  'Wild  and  weird/  Could  anything  be  more 
ridiculous !" 

"Nothing  could  be  more  insulting  to  the  singer  and 
his  songs,"  said  Dorothy. 

"Why!  my  dear,  are  you  taking  them  seriously? 
It  won't  do,  my  dear.  Don't  you  see,  they  knew  they 
were  coming  to  hear  Indian  songs,  and  in  talking  it 
over  they  had  said  to  each  other  that  the  songs  would 
be  of  the  wild  and  weird  variety  as  a  matter  of  course. 
They  couldn't  imagine  any  other  kind  of  Indian  music, 
I  couldn't  myself,  until  I'd  heard  it ;  and,  having  heard 
and  not  comprehended  a  note,  they  had  to  say  what 
had  been  their  preconception  of  it,  don't  you  see? 
They  couldn't  say  anything  else.  It's  simply  funny. 
Isn't  it,  Mr.  Strongheart?" 

Strongheart  slowly  turned  from  the  window.  His 
face  was  lighted  by  the  grave  smile  so  characteristic 
of  him,  and  he  looked  first  at  Dorothy,  waiting  a  per- 
ceptible moment  before  he  replied,  "I  think  it  is  the 
best  way  to  regard  the  episode,  Mrs.  Kirk.  I  am 
sorry  only  for  Miss  Nelson,  who  had  made  the  songs 
possible  for  white  people,  and  whose  work  on  them 
deserved  unqualified  success.  I  think  we  should  dwell 

239 


STRONGHEART 

OQ  the  fact  that  your  guests  generally  were  pleased." 

"That's  right,"  said  Mrs.  Kirk. 

"Strongheart,"  said  Dorothy,  facing  him  in  her 
frankest  way,  "would  you  care  to  repeat  the  experi- 
ment?" 

"Miss  Nelson,"  he  answered,  "I  would  not." 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Kirk,  after  both  had  expressed 
their  appreciation  of  the  opportunity  to  try  the  experi- 
ment in  her  home,  "I  don't  blame  you  for  not  caring 
to  repeat  it  It  must  be  distressing  to  find  that  one 
has  cast  pearls  before  swine." 


240 


CHAPTER  XVII 
LIVINGSTON'S  LOSING  BATTLE 

Spring  had  not  come  when  our  young  people  began 
to  plan  the  Summer  vacation.  It  was  Dorothy  who 
made  the  suggestion  that  served  as  a  text  for  all  their 
discussions.  Her  brother  had  brought  Strongheart 
home  to  dinner,  and  the  young  men  remained  through 
the  evening.  On  that  occasion  the  jO  jib  way  talked 
more  freely  of  the  life  of  his  people  than  at  any  time 
during  their  acquaintance  with  him.  It  was  not  only 
that  he  had  overcome  the  first  restraints  that  make  all 
Indians  shy  among  strangers,  but  that  the  influence 
of  Dorothy's  idealization  of  his  purpose  was  still  strong 
upon  him,  so  that,  his  thoughts  dwelling  much  in  the 
wilderness,  and  on  the  reservation,  and  the  problems 
he  must  try  to  solve,  he  gave  ready  expression  to  them, 
and  with  unconscious  eloquence  presented  a  vivid  pic- 
ture of  forest  life. 

"I  should  think,"  Dorothy  said,  toward  the  end  of 
the  conversation,  "that  it  would  be  a  real  sacrifice  for 
you  to  spend  so  much  time  in  the  city." 

Strongheart  looked  gravely  at  her  for  a  moment,  as 
he  often  did,  before  replying.  "Do  I  not  seem  like  a 
civilized  man?"  he  asked,  presently,  and  Dorothy  was 
too  astonished  to  reply  at  once. 

241 


STRONGHEART 

Her  brother  laughed.  "The  general  impression  fe," 
said  he,  "that  Strongheart  is  the  most  civilized  student 
at  Columbia." 

"Surely,"  said  Mrs.  Nelson,  "nobody  ever  thinks  of 
Mr.  Strongheart  in  any  other  way. 

"I  knew  that  to  be  so,"  said  Strongheart.  "I  only 
asked  the  question  in  order  to  make  my  answer  to 
Miss  Nelson  perfectly  clear.  Yes,  there  are  times 
when  life  in  the  city  does  seem  a  sacrifice.  You  know 
me  pretty  well,  I  think.  I  glory  in  my  civilization. 
I  have  been  marvelously  happy  in  college.  Perhaps 
because  I  had  given  up  all  hope  of  further  study,  I 
really  have  been  eager  for  the  book  work,  and  I  think 
I  have  appreciated  it.  It  gives  me  profound  satisfac- 
tion merely  to  look  at  the  buildings  of  the  University. 
I  believe  that  I  belong  there,  that  I  belong  in  the 
civilized  life,  and  yet  there  are  times  when  I  have  an 
overwhelming  heart-sickness  for  the  woods,  when  here 
I  feel  shut  in.  I  can't  set  my  course  by  a  star,  or  a 
hilltop,  and  follow  it  in  my  own  way,  but  I  must  go 
in  a  straight  line  to  the  end  of  a  row  of  buildings,  and 
then  follow  another  row  of  buildings  at  right  angles 
to  the  first.  Even  when  there  are  few  buildings  I 
must  keep  to  the  beaten  trail.  I  do  long  often  for 
those  paths  in  the  wilderness  that  only  an  Indian  can 
see  and  keep  to.  But,  with  all  that,  Miss  Nelson,  there 
is  no  sacrifice.  The  advantages  and  pleasures  counter- 
balance the  occasional  melancholy." 

Frank  stayed  at  home  that  night,  and,  after  Strong- 
heart  had  gone,  Dorothy  said,  "How  I  should  like  to 
see  the  land  he  speaks  of  with  such  deep  feeling  " 

242 


STRONGHEART 

"Well,  why  shouldn't  you  ?"  asked  her  brother. 

"I  have  often  wondered  why  I  shouldn't,"  Dorothy 
replied.  "Dick's  letters  last  Summer  interested  me 
greatly  in  the  country  and  its  people.  Since  we  have 
known  Strongheart,  the  desire  to  see  the  places  he 
tells  us  about  has  grown  greater.  Why  shouldn't  we 
all  go  to  the  woods  for  a  short  time  next  Summer? 
If  mamma  could  put  up  with  tent  life  for  two  or  three 
weeks — " 

"Oh,  Dorothy!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Nelson,  properly 
aghast,  "would  you  make  a  savage  of  your  mother?" 

"Not  on  your  life !"  cried  the  son.  "You  can  live  in 
a  tent  just  as  luxuriously  as  at  home.  You've  no  idea 
of  the  contrivances  that  may  be  taken  into  the  woods 
to  make  the  most  exquisite  tenderfoot  comfortable. 
There  are  bed  bags  that  you  blow  up  before  using,  and 
that  are  better  than  any  feathers,  or  expensive  mat- 
tresses— "  and  with  the  cheerful  exaggeration  of 
wholesome  youth,  he  proceeded  to  show  how  Mrs. 
Nelson  could  live  in  the  Canadian  wilds  without  miss- 
ing the  creature  comforts  to  which  she  was  accus- 
tomed. 

Mrs.  Nelson  laughed  with  good-humored  incredulity 
at  first,  but  she,  too,  had  been  deeply  interested  in 
Strongheart  and  his  country,  and  by  degrees  she  came 
from  smiling  assertion  that  the  idea  was  impossible,  to 
a  promise  to  consider  it.  That  meant  that  the  battle 
was  won,  and  by  then  Dick  and  Molly  Livingston  were 
not  only  cognizant  of  the  undertaking,  but  a  vital  part 
of  it.  Plans  were  made  with  the  utmost  enthusiasm 
to  engage  Steve  Winterton  as  chief  guide,  and  pro- 

243 


STRONGHEART 

ceed  from  the  Soo  directly  to  the  Ojibway  Summer 
village  which  should  be  their  point  of  departure  for 
such  short  excursions  as  they  might  find  agreeable 
when  on  the  spot. 

The  snow  was  hardly  off  the  ground  when  Winter- 
ton's  illiterate  acceptance  of  the  contract  came  and 
was  made  the  occasion  of  a  general  council  at  Mrs. 
Nelson's.  There  was  really  nothing  to  talk  over  that 
had  not  been  thoroughly  threshed  out  at  previous 
councils,  but  even  if  Livingston's  degree  had  been  en- 
dangered, he  could  not  have  resisted  the  temptation 
to  go  over  and  over  the  plans  for  the  Summer.  This 
council,  however,  opened  the  way  for  a  crisis  not  only 
in  the  plans  for  the  Summer,  but  in  the  shaping  of 
Livingston's  future. 

"Dick,"  said  Molly,  suddenly,  "have  you  written  to 
papa  about  this  ?" 

"Hadn't  thought  of  it,"  he  replied;   "have  you?" 

"Of  course  not.    I  thought  that  was  up  to  you." 

"Perhaps  'twas.  I'm  not  sure.  Anyhow,  we  might 
as  well  let  the  governor  know  what's  doing." 

Livingston  dutifully  wrote  to  his  father  the  very 
same  night,  fearful  that  if  he  postponed  it  he  would 
forget  the  matter  altogether  until  it  was  time  to  start 
for  the  Soo.  By  return  mail,  promptness  enhanced 
by  a  special  delivery  stamp,  he  received  a  reply  from 
Livingston  senior,  of  which  the  following  is  an  ex- 
tract : 

"I  had  been  quietly  planning  for  a  long  time  to  give 
you  and  Molly  a  treat  this  Summer,  and  I  shall  be 
disappointed  if  you  have  committed  yourselves  to  the 

244 


STRONGHEART 

woods  so  deeply  that  you  cannot  honorably  draw  out. 
By  such  contriving  as  a  college  student  cannot  possi- 
bly imagine,  I  have  got  my  affairs  in  shape  where  I 
can  venture  to  leave  them  for  three  months,  and  it 
was  my  dream  to  take  my  children  to  Europe  and  see 
the  Old  World  through  their  eyes.  It  was  my  inten- 
tion to  let  you  make  the  itinerary  absolutely  according, 
to  your  desires,  providing  only  that  it  could  be  covered 
in  the  time  limit,  and  I  have  gone  so  far  as  to  book 
our  passage  by  steamer  sailing  June  20.  That,  of 
course,  can  be  canceled  if  necessary,  and  I  leave  the 
decision  wholly  with  you,  but  I  suggest  that,  while 
both  Europe  and  the  woods  will  endure  for  some  years 
longer,  the  opportunity  for  me  to  revisit  the  old  coun- 
tries with  my  children  while  they  are  still  impression- 
able is  hardly  likely  to  occur  again,  for  you  are  not 
only  growing  older  and  more  sophisticated,  but  I  am 
getting  more  and  more  immersed  in  business  with 
every  year.  I  ask  only  that  you  let  me  know  your 
final  decision  at  as  early  a  moment  as  possible." 

Livingston  took  this  letter  to  his  sister,  and  said 
nothing  until,  having  read  it,  she  looked  up  inquir- 
ingly, with  a  suspicion  of  moisture  in  her  eyes. 

"Dear  old  governor,"  said  he,  "then  of  course 
that  settles  it,  doesn't  it?" 

"Of  course,"  she  replied  at  once.  "We're  awfully 
selfish,  Dick." 

"I  know  it,  and  yet  the  governor  has  been  most 
inconsiderate  in  making  his  plans  without  consulting 
us,  hasn't  he,  now?" 

Molly  fixed  him  with  a  solemn  stare  and  responded, 
245 


STRONGHEART 

"He's  old  enough  to  know  a  lot  better,  especially  in 
view  of  the  example  we  set  him." 

Then  they  both  laughed,  Dick,  it  must  be  said,  a 
little  ruefully.  "I  don't  mind  confessing  to  you  pri- 
vately, Molly,"  said  he,  "that  if  I  were  to  choose  for 
my  own  pleasure,  I'd  rather  three  days  in  the  woods 
than  a  cycle  of  the  effete  monarchies,  but  I  take  it 
that  the  governor  has  set  his  heart  on  this  excursion, 
foolish  old  boy!  and  that  we  should  be  downright 
mean  if  we  hesitated,  or  showed  anything  but  the  most 
extravagant  glee  over  it." 

"Sure!"  cried  his  sister;  "he's  the  best  papa  in  the 
world,  and  I'm  going  to  write  him  of  my  belated  dis- 
covery to  that  effect.  You  must  write,  too,  Dick. 
Don't  fail,  now !" 

"Never  fear.  I'll  write  him  a  letter  that'll  make 
his  poor  old  heart  sit  up  and  take  notice.  But  we 
must  let  Frank  and  Dorothy  know  at  once." 

"Certainly,  but  it  needn't  make  a  bit  of  difference 
with  them.  They  must  go  on  with  their  plans  just  the 
same." 

"Of  course,"  said  Dick,  with  a  little  gasp  that  his 
sister  did  not  interpret  correctly.  Until  that  moment 
it  had  not  occurred  to  him  that  the  change  in  plans 
would  put  thousands  of  miles  between  him  and  Doro- 
thy for  the  entire  Summer.  That  prospect  set  a 
sudden  weight  on  his  heart,  and,  although  it  gave  not 
an  instant's  check  to  his  decision  to  abide  cheerfully 
by  his  father's  arrangements,  it  did  more  than  de- 
press him  for  the  moment.  As  the  weeks  passed,  and 
the  time  of  separation  drew  near,  he  found  that  it 

246 


STRONGHEART 

was  essential  to  his  peace  of  mind  that  he  should  have 
an  understanding  with  Dorothy. 

There  was  no  shadow  of  jealous  fear  upon  him. 
Thome's  infatuation  for  Dorothy  was  as  obvious  to 
him  as  it  was  to  the  rest  of  the  eleven,  and  others  of 
his  friends ;  but  Thorne  was  by  no  means  alone  in 
his  adoration  of  Dorothy,  and  it  was  sufficiently  clear 
to  Livingston  that  Dorothy  favored  none  so  much  as 
himself  to  make  him  wholly  at  ease  so  far  as  rivals 
were  concerned.  Indeed,  it  may  not  be  too  much  to 
assert  that  the  generosity  of  his  nature  would  have 
enabled  him  to  see  another  succeed  in  her  esteem  with 
tranquil  resignation  to  his  own  disappointment,  and 
with  no  bitterness  toward  either  her  or  the  victor. 

It  never  occurred  to  him  even  in  his  most  fantastic 
dreams  that  Strongheart  could  be  a  rival,  for,  although 
the  Ojibway  had  at  times  betrayed  emotion  after  the 
manner  of  the  white  race,  he  was  wholly  successful  in 
repressing  manifestation  of  what  was  deepest  in  his 
heart  whenever  he  chose  to  repress  it,  and  his  abject 
worship  of  Dorothy  was  one  of  the  things  he  chose  to 
hide.  Moreover,  with  all  the  respect  and  affection 
which  Livingston  had  for  Strongheart,  with  all  his 
supposably  unqualified  acceptation  of  him  as  an  equal, 
there  remained  subconsciously  and  unconsciously  a 
knowledge — not  a  feeling,  but  a  knowledge — that  he 
was  nevertheless  different,  a  man  of  an  alien  race.  As 
yet  no  circumstances  had  arisen  to  call  this  knowledge 
into  activity,  and  while  it  slumbered  its  effect  was 
negative  only,  befogging  Livingston's  mind  as  to  the 
truth  and  stilling  him  with  a  false  sense  of  security. 

247 


STRONGHEART 

No,  the  only  uneasiness  in  the  heart  of  Dick  Living- 
ston as  Summer  drew  near  was  due  wholly  to  his  own 
condition  without  reference  to  so  much  as  the  exist- 
ence of  others.  He  loved ;  with  every  month*  he  loved 
more  deeply ;  Dorothy  was  to  go  one  way,  he  another ; 
therefore,  such  is  the  logic  of  love,  although  presently 
each  would  turn  about  and  approach  the  other,  he 
must  speak  to  her  as  he  had  never  yet  spoken. 

The  Nelsons,  after  a  brief  season  of  disappointment 
over  the  news  that  Dick  and  Molly  could  not  go  to  the 
wilderness  with  them,  continued  to  plan  for  their  brief 
visit  to  the  land  of  the  Ojibways ;  and  Dick,  when  his 
memory  dwelt  on  the  evening  when  he  made  the  an- 
nouncement, glowed  warm  with  hope,  for  the  regret  in 
Dorothy's  eyes  and  manner  had  been  unmistakable. 
Indeed,  it  was  she  who  cried,  "Then  let's  not  go! 
Let's  postpone  it  till  next  summer." 

Livingston  promptly  and  emphatically  opposed  this' 
suggestion.  He  pointed  out  that  the  proper  time  was 
now,  when  her  interest  was  keen;  that  all  arrange- 
ments were  made ;  that  he  and  Molly  would  be  unhappy 
if  their  absence  should  cause  such  a  radical  change 
of  programme. 

"But,  Dick,"  Dorothy  protested,  "it  was  your  let- 
ters that  aroused  my  interest,  and  I  wanted  to  see  the 
country  with  you." 

"Thanks,"  he  responded,  bowing  low  in  mock  solem- 
nity in  order  to  mask  his  delight,  "but  Frank  was  there 
when  the  letters  were  written,  and,  if  you  want  real- 
ism, you  can  take  them  with  you  and  put  the  sheets 
of  paper  on  the  respective  spots  they  describe.  There 

248 


STRONGHEART 

were  so  many  I  think  they'd  cover  pretty  much  the 
whole  country/' 

Frank,  of  course,  insisted  on  the  original  plan,  and 
Mrs.  Nelson,  now  that  her  mind  was  made  up  for  it, 
thought  it  would  better  not  be  abandoned,  and  so, 
presently,  Dorothy  ceased  her  objections. 

Strongheart,  who  had  been  inexpressibly  delighted 
with  the  general  proposition,  was  deeply  grieved  at  the 
necessity  for  the  withdrawal  of  Livingston  and  his  sis- 
ter. There,  too,  was  an  instance  of  deep  love  without 
a  trace  of  jealous  fear.  With  no  pretense  of  exalting 
the  Ojib way's  nature  and  denying  him  the  capacity  for 
jealousy,  it  is  well  to  point  out  that  when  he  came  to 
the  East  he  had  to  take  people  as  he  found  them ;  and, 
finding  a  pleasant,  wholesome  degree  of  intimacy  be- 
tween the  Livingstons  and  the  Nelsons,  it  never 
occurred  to  him  that  there  was  a  special  affection  on 
the  part  of  Dick  for  Dorothy.  It  would  have  been  as 
reasonable  for  him  to  perceive  a  special  feeling  on  the 
part  of  Frank  for  Molly,  in  which  case  he  would  have 
been  in  error;  and,  to  his  eyes,  the  conduct  of  Dick 
and  Dorothy,  when  they  were  together,  was  precisely 
on  a  level  with  that  of  Frank  and  Molly. 

So,  then,  love  was  playing  his  cruel  game  of  cross 
purposes  with  some  of  these  young  people,  and  it  was 
a  game  that  could  not  go  on  much  longer  in  the  dark. 
Livingston  suffered  much  tribulation  in  spirit  before 
he  could  bring  himself  to  speak  to  Dorothy,  for  when 
he  drew  near  the  subject  he  shrank  from  it  as  one 
unworthy  of  the  blessedness  for  which  he  must  appeal. 
There  were  moments  when,  even  to  his  ardent  heart, 

249 


STRONGHEART 

it  seemed  almost  unholy  to  risk  the  sweetness  of  com- 
radeship by  presuming  to  seek  relations  of  a  more 
intimate  nature.  But  to  him  who  loves  there  is  no 
logic  in  aught  save  confession,  and  one  day  in  June 
Dick  laid  bare  his  soul,  and  Dorothy  stood  grieving 
at  what  she  saw  there.  Her  beautiful  eyes  filled  with 
tears. 

"Oh!  I  am  so  sorry!"  she  cried,  and  impulsively 
she  clasped  his  hand. 

Dick  thrilled  at  her  touch,  while  yet  his  heart  sank 
at  her  words. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  stammered.  "Am  I  too 
late  ?  Should  I  have  spoken  sooner  ?" 

"No!  no!"  she  replied  hurriedly.  "Believe  me  it 
is  not  that,  but,  oh  Dick!  we  have  been  such  good 
friends  I" 

"Well,"  said  he,  bewildered,  "it  doesn't  follow  that 
we're  going  to  be  enemies  because  I  love  you,  does  it  ? 
I  had  an  idea  that  lovers  were  sort  of  sublimated,  or 
double-extra-concentrated  friends,  or  something  of 
that  kind,  you  know.  You  couldn't  expect  me  to  love 
you  if  we  hadn't  been  friends,  could  you?  I  don't 
understand  you,  Dorothy.  Can't  lovers  be  friends?" 

"Lovers,  yes,  I  think  so,"  she  replied  faintly,  and, 
dropping  his  hand,  she  turned  her  head  aside. 

"And  that  means,"  said  he,  after  a  moment  of  pain- 
ful silence,  "that  you  do  not  love  me,  doesn't  it?" 

"Not  in  the  way  you  wish,  Dick.  Oh !  why  couldn't 
we  have  remained  just  friends  ?" 

Dick's  heart  recoiled  in  fear  as  the  dreadful  light 
suddenly  dissipated  his  misunderstanding.  He  could 

250 


5  T  R  O  N  G  H  E  A  R  T 

not  let  this  be  the  end  of  it  all,  he  could  not  endure 
the  thought  of  losing  her  altogether.  Not  count  Doro- 
thy as  his  friend?  The  dull,  mystifying  pain  of  her 
refusal  became  acute  anguish. 

"Dorothy !"  he  cried,  "I'd  take  it  back  if  I  could.  I 
can't,  for  of  course  I  meant  it,  but  don't  throw  me 
over!  don't  banish  me — " 

He  checked  himself,  for  she  was  looking  at  him  in 
sad  surprise.  "How  could  I  throw  you  over,  Dick?" 
she  asked.  "It  would  be  impossible  for  me  to  wish  to 
banish  you.  Oh !  how  hard  it  is  for  a  man  and  a 
woman  to  understand  one  another  when  they  do  not 
love  equally  and  in  the  same  way!  Don't  you  see, 
Dick,  that  we  can't  be  on  just  the  same  terms  as  be- 
fore? That  tranquil,  happy  friendship  is  destroyed." 
Her  voice  shook,  and  she  paused  to  collect  herself. 

"There's  something  wrong,  then,"  said  he,  "for  I 
have  been  in  love  with  you  for  more  than  a  year, 
I  was  in  love  with  you  when  I  wrote  those  letters  you 
seem  to  think  so  much  of — " 

"But  I  didn't  know  it,"  she  interrupted,  "and  now 
I  do.  Whatever  you  wrote,  or  said,  always  appealed 
to  me  as  the  expression  of  a  sincere  friend,  and  not 
as  that  of  a — " 

"Lover!"  he  blurted,  as  she  hesitated.  "Is  it  pos- 
sible you  can  object  to  receiving  letters  from  one  who 
loves  you  so  much  that  he  doesn't  know  how  to  find 
words  to  express  it?  Blame  it,  Dorothy,  I  can't  de- 
scend to  stock  phrases,  and  I'm  no  poet  to  invent  new 
ones." 

"You  don't  need  to,  Dick.     I  understand." 
251 


STRONGHEART 

"Well,  don't  you  want  love  of  that  kind?" 

"I— I  don't  know,  Dick." 

"You've  got  it  anyhow,  Dorothy,  and  you  can't  kill 
it,  or  diminish  it.  There's  just  one — no,  two  things 
you  can  do  with  it.  Tell  me,  do  you  mean  you  simply 
can't  love  me  ?" 

"I  wish  I  could,  Dick!  Cari  you  understand  that  I 
love  you  so  much  that  I  wish  I  didn't  have  to  pain 
you—" 

"Stop  at  that,  Dorothy !    Don't  say  another  word — " 

"But  you  misunderstand — " 

"No,  I  don't !  You  think  well  enough  of  me  to  wish 
you  could  think  more  of  me.  I  understand  you  per- 
fectly, you  see.  Now  I  was  going  to  say  there  are 
two  things  you  can  do  with  my  love.  You  can  accept 
it,  or  silence  it.  Dorothy,  don't  you  think  that  some 
time  you  might  find  you  could  accept  it  ?" 

There  was  a  world  of  sadness  in  her  eyes  as  she 
looked  straight  at  him  and  answered,  "I  don't  know, 
Dick.  I'm  afraid— " 

He  would  not  let  her  finish.  "Then,"  he  broke  in, 
"silence  me,  my  love,  I  mean.  It  can  wait  and  hope, 
for  you  can't  prevent  that.  If  I  can't  have  your  love, 
I  want  your  friendship.  I  must  have  it.  You  must 
let  me  write  to  you  this  Summer  just  as  I  did  last 
Summer.  I  promise  the  same  kind  of  letters.  I  won't 
harp  on  my  one  song,  but  I'll  keep  in  touch  with  you. 
Please,  Dorothy !  Help  me  so  much.  Write  to  me  as 
before,  and  let  me  write  to  you." 

"I  am  afraid  it  would  be  a  mistake,"  she  faltered. 
"I  shall  always  know  now  what  is  beneath  the  lines." 

252 


STRONGHEART 

"Let  it  be  so,"  he  insisted.  "I  will  be  frank  with 
you  and  confess  that  I  shall  still  hope  to  win.  Come ! 
it's  an  open  field,  isn't  it  ?  It's  not  against  the  law  for 
a  fellow  to  love  a  beautiful  girl  who's  been  his  best 
friend.  If  you  didn't  love  me  at  all,  you'd  turn  me 
down  flat.  So,  you  see,  I've  got  a  fair  start,  and  you 
can't  be  so  unfair  as  to  trip  me  at  this  stage  of  the 
race." 

Thus  Livingston  fought  out  his  losing  battle,  and 
won;  that  is,  when  at  last  their  discussion  ended, 
Dorothy  had  been  persuaded  that  their  relations  could 
remain  as  before  the  revelation  was  made.  He  would 
write  to  her,  and  she  to  him,  and  Dorothy  would  not 
steel  her  heart  against  him.  So  much  she  promised, 
and  this  was  so  much  better  than  the  end  had  threat- 
ened to  be,  that  Dick  was  almost  happy  as  he  strode 
back  to  his  quarters  at  Columbia.  Leaden  disappoint- 
ment still  lay  on  his  heart ;  but  beneath  it  was  throb- 
bing hope  that  in  time  he  could  lift  it  and  cast  it 
aside. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
STRONGHEART'S  DREAMS 

Strange,  waking  dreams  visited  Strongheart  during 
those  pleasant  Spring  days.  Gravely  he  considered 
them,  turned  them  about  and  found  them  fair  on  all 
sides,  weighed  them  and  found  them  not  wholly  un- 
substantial. His  relations  with  Dorothy  Nelson  were 
about  to  be  reversed.  Now  she  was  to  be  the  guest, 
he  the  host.  There  were  phases  of  life  in  the  forest 
with  which  she  was  unfamiliar,  and  he  would  be  the 
guide  and  teacher.  In  a  measure  she  would  be  de- 
pendent on  him  and,  instead  of  an  occasional  meeting 
at  her  house,  there  would  be  daily,  close  companion- 
ship. It  would  be  his  privilege  to  paddle  her  about 
the  lakes  in  a  bark  canoe,  to  help  her  over  the  forest 
trails,  to  superintend  the  placing  and  arrangement  of 
her  dwelling,  to  make  her  wishes  known  to  his  people, 
all  of  whom  would  be  for  the  time  being  her  servants. 

Such  considerations,  natural,  inevitable,  were  the 
basis  of  the  dreams  which  concerned  the  time  when 
Dorothy's  visit  should  have  become  a  thing  of  the  past. 
She  would  talk  with  his  father,  with  Black  Eagle,  with 
Gezhikway;  she  would  see  his  people  and  their  cir- 
cumstances with  her  own  eyes  and  not  through  such 
information  as  he  had  tried  to  impart  to  her  by  color- 

254 


STRONGHEART 

less  words.  The  problems  of  Indian  life  would  be- 
come concrete,  not  inferential  deductions.  What  he, 
as  the  future  leader  of  his  people,  had  to  contend  with, 
would  be  as  a  plain  fact  before  her,  and  therefore  she 
could  be,  what  she  had  expressed  the  wish  to  be, 
really  helpful.  So  much  was  more  substantial  than  a 
dream  of  the  night ;  it  rested  on  certainties.  Why  not 
something  greater,  sweeter  ?  Why  should  he  regard  it 
as  impossible  that  she  might  see  how  she  could  multi- 
ply her  usefulness  immeasurably  by  becoming  a  per- 
sonal part  of  the  force  working  for  the  preservation 
and  uplifting  of  the  Ojibway  people? 

Slowly  and  gravely  as  he  set  this  dream  before  him, 
logically  as  he  assured  himself  that  it  might  be  real- 
ized, he  yet  drew  away  from  it  with  quaking  appre- 
hension. Was  he  sure  of  her?  As  a  character,  yes! 
but  as  a  woman — there  was  room  for  reasonable  doubt. 
Was  it  really  thinkable  that  one  nurtured  in  luxury, 
whose  mind  and  body  were  of  the  tender  city  growth, 
could  go  to  the  wilderness  and  thrive  in  such  radically 
different  conditions? 

It  was  easy  to  conceive  that  Dorothy's  imagination 
would  be  equal  to  undertaking  humanitarian  work  in 
the  forest;  would  her  physique  and  her  enthusiasm 
sustain  her  in  the  hard  reality?  Strongheart  thought 
that  this  was  questionable.  Without  the  slightest  dis- 
paragement of  her,  he  analyzed  her  work  among  the 
poor  of  the  city.  She  gave  a  generous  proportion  of 
time  and  energy  to  it,  and  she  visited  the  poor  in  their 
meagre,  if  not  squalid  quarters,  but  she  did  not  live 
with  them,  not  for  as  much  as  one  whole  day  at  a 

255 


STRONGHEART 

time.  She  always  had  the  relief,  if  relief  it  was,  of 
a  return  to  the  comforts  and  niceties  of  her  own 
home. 

In  other  words,  Dorothy's  character  had  not  been 
put  to  the  full  test.  How  would  she  endure  the 
deprivation  of  familiar  luxuries?  How  would  she  do 
without  music?  that  art  in  which  she  was  gifted,  in 
which  her  attainments,  to  Strongheart's  perceptions, 
were  great,  and  that  art  which,  more  than  any  other, 
depends  upon  the  conditions  found  where  population 
is  compact  and  considerably  advanced  in  culture. 

Sorry  questions,  these,  and  yet  the  day  dream  would 
not  vanish  into  thin  air  along  with  the  fantasies  of 
night,  for  Strongheart's  love  was  a  form  of  faith,  and 
this  assured  him  that  Dorothy  Nelson  would  be  equal 
to  any  course  which  her  conscience  and  judgment  told 
her  was  right.  How,  then,  when  she  came  to  see  the 
Ojibways  in  their  native  surroundings?  Would  she 
believe  them  worth  the  effort,  the  sacrifice  necessary 
to  lead  them  upward?  The  Indian's  heart  so  quaked 
with  fear  of  the  answer  to  this  question  that  he  almost 
dreaded  Dorothy's  visit.  It  might  prove  to  be  a  dis- 
illusionment for  her. 

Chief  Kiwetin  and  several  families  had  already  left 
the  reservation  for  the  Summer  village  when  Strong- 
heart  arrived  home.  He  therefore  went  straight  on 
and  joined  his  father.  They  met  with  a  cordial  hand- 
shake, but  few  words.  The  old  man  made  inquiry  at 
once  about  Nelson  and  Livingston,  and  expressed  great 
pleasure  at  the  news  that  Nelson  would  soon  come  for 
a  visit 

256 


STRONGHEART 

"I  am  sorry  Livingston  isn't  coming,  too,"  saui  the 
Chief.  "He's  a  fine  young  man.  I  like  him." 

"Nelson's  mother  and  sister  are  coming,"  Strong- 
heart  added.  "I  think  you  will  like  them,  too.  They 
are  good  women." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Kiwetin,  "they  will  be  welcome." 

The  Chief  gave  way  to  a  fit  of  violent  coughing,  and 
Strongheart  looked  an  anxious  inquiry. 

"It's  the  houses,  Soangetaha,"  said  Kiwetin.  "I 
don't  believe  the  Indian  can  live  in  a  house.  Every 
Winter  at  the  reservation  we  catch  colds,  and  yet  our 
houses  are  tight,  and  we  have  just  such  stoves  as  the 
white  men  use.  The  white  men  must  be  different, 
somehow.  I  am  much  better  in  the  wigwam,  as  I 
always  was,  and  after  I  have  been  here  a  few  days  the 
cough  will  go  away." 

The  son  hoped  so.  He  had  never  known  his  father 
to  carry  a  Winter  cold  so  far  into  the  Summer,  but 
there  was  nothing  to  do  about  it,  and  therefore  nothing 
to  say. 

A  week  of  restless  activity  passed.  Strongheart 
again  attached  the  fumiferous  Mukwa  to  himself  as  a 
servant  in  all  but  title,  and  together  they  prepared  the 
ground  for  the  Nelsons'  tents.  They  brought  great 
piles  of  fresh  balsam  boughs  to  make  the  air  sweet 
within,  and  to  be  used  in  the  beds  if  the  ladies  should 
eventually  decide  to  discard  the  contrivances  of  civ- 
ilization which  Mrs.  Nelson  insisted  should  be  brought 
with  them;  they  prepared  a  roll  of  birch  bark  for 
kindling,  and  they  heaped  up  enough  drift  wood  and 
fresh  cut  sticks  to  furnish  campfires  all  Summer  long ; 

257 


STRONGHEART 

they  fashioned  cups  and  bowls  of  bark,  prepared  cords 
of  tamarack,  built  a  special  fireplace,  with  smooth 
stones  ready  for  cooking  a  meal  in  the  ancient  fashion, 
and  set  up  tripods;  they  dug  trenches  to  prevent  any 
possible  flooding  of  the  ground  reserved  for  tents. 
Strongheart  contrived  every  day  to  find  new  things  to 
do  in  the  way  of  preparing  for  his  guests,  else  he 
would  have  had  to  rush  over  the  trails,  or  paddle  on 
the  lake,  to  still  the  tumult  of  anticipation  that  shook 
his  soul. 

Early  one  afternoon  a  number  of  canoes  emerged 
from  the  shadow  of  islands  in  mid-lake,  and  Strong- 
heart  knew  that  the  hour  of  one  of  his  life  trials  was 
at  hand.  Already,  according  to  the  plans  carefully 
made  by  himself  and  Nelson,  she  must  have  been  in 
camp  three  nights  on  the  way  from  the  Soo.  By  so 
much  she  had  become  accustomed  to  roughing  it,  or 
possibly  disgusted  with  it,  but  she  had  yet  to  see  his 
people  at  home  and  realize  how  close  to  the  soil  they 
were. 

The  whole  village  gathered  at  the  shore  to  greet 
the  visitors.  Kiwetin,  Black  Eagle,  and  other  elderly 
men  stood  like  statues,  the  squaws  sat  on  the  ground, 
the  children  raced  up  and  down  the  strand  and 
splashed  the  water  with  their  bare  feet.  Strongheart 
was  a  little  apart  from  the  men,  his  face  as  immobile 
as  any,  but  his  soul  gazing  outward  until  his  eyes 
ached.  He  recognized  Winterton  first.  There  was 
one  passenger  in  his  canoe,  Mrs.  Nelson,  undoubtedly. 
Next  in  the  line  was  a  canoe  loaded  with  baggage, 
propelled  manifestly  by  Indians.  These  two  canoes 

258 


STRONGHEART 

partially  concealed  two  others  until  all  were  clear  of 
the  islands,  and  then  the  heart  of  the  watching  Indian 
leaped,  for  he  saw  a  canoe  in  which  the  bow  paddle 
was  handled  by  a  woman !  It  could  be  none  other  than 
Dorothy,  quite  regardless  of  the  fact  that,  even  at  a 
distance,  there  was  evidence  to  trained  eyes  that  the 
paddler  was  not  wholly  familiar  with  her  task.  Mani- 
festly the  last  canoe,  whose  paddlers  moved  with  the 
regularity  of  a  machine  and  the  grace  of  birds  in 
flight,  was  held  close  to  the  one  in  which  the  woman 
sat  to  render  quick  aid  if  any  were  needed.  The  lake 
was  still,  the  sky  cloudless;  it  seemed  to  Strongheart 
that  earth  and  heaven,  air  and  water,  had  entered  into 
friendly  conspiracy  to  make  her  journey  safe  and 
pleasant.  That  was  her  brother  in  the  stern  of  her 
canoe.  They  had  come  quite  three  miles  from  their 
stopping  place  for  dinner,  and  still  she  at  the  bow 
plied  her  paddle  with  vigor  and,  despite  inexperience, 
with  certainty  that  robbed  the  spectacle  of  any  element 
of  risk. 

Strongheart  could  have  held  his  peace;  it  would 
have  been  the  most  natural  thing  to  do,  although  the 
Indian,  at  the  approach  of  familiar  visitors,  is  often 
extravagantly  vociferous  in  his  manifestations  of 
pleasure;  but  these  were  people  of  civilization,  and 
he  was  a  civilized  man.  He  cast  aside  a  minute  frac- 
tion of  his  restraint,  waved  his  hat,  and  let  go  his  voice 
in  a  falsetto  yell  that  sped  across  the  gleaming  water 
and  apprised  the  travelers  that  they  were  recognized. 
Up  went  Dorothy's  paddle  in  air  by  way  of  salute,  and 
a  musical  cry,  sweeter  than  the  song  of  any  bird  in 

269 


STRONGHEART 

Ojibway  land,  came  floating  back.  Then  her  paddle 
dug  into  the  water  again,  and  the  flotilla  came  steadily 
onward. 

"Hello,  Strongheart !"  shouted  Nelson,  when  the 
canoes  were  near  the  landing  place. 

The  Indian  could  not  answer.  He  waded  in,  as  did 
Mukwa  and  some  others,  to  help  the  paddlers  bring 
their  frail  craft  safely  to  the  shore.  Of  course  it  was 
Dorothy's  canoe  he  guided,  and  he  held  it  steady  until, 
flushed  with  exercise,  her  face  already  ruddy  with  the 
sun's  painting,  her  eyes  sparkling,  she  stepped  upon 
the  shore. 

"Oh,  Strongheart!"  she  cried,  "isn't  it  glorious! 
They  wouldn't  let  me  paddle  until  today,  and  I  believe 
I  could  have  beaten  Mr.  Winterton  if  I'd  tried." 

"And  if  he  had  let  you,"  added  her  brother. 
"Strongheart,  old  boy,  how  are  you?" 

Strongheart  shook  hands  with  each  of  them,  his 
eyes  more  expressive  of  his  pleasure  than  were  his 
words,  and  hastened  to  assist  Mrs.  Nelson. 

"At  last,  Strongheart,"  said  she,  in  a  tone  that  im- 
plied the  successful  passing  of  a  crisis,  "here  we  are 
in  the  land  of  the  O  jib  ways." 

"I  hope  your  journey  has  not  been  unpleasant,"  he 
suggested. 

"Far  from  it.  It's  fatiguing  to  sit  still  so  long  in  a 
canoe,  and  I  should  think  those  who  do  the  work  have 
a  little  the  best  of  it,  but  it  is  all  so  novel,  and  your 
country  is  so  beautiful,  that  I  really  have  enjoyed  every 
minute." 

"That  is  good.  Glad  to  see  you,  Winterton.  Mukwa 
260 


STRONGHEART 

will  show  you  where  your  camp  is  to  be.    Let  me  know 
if  you  need  help." 

The  veteran  guide's  lips  parted  in  a  smile  that  would 
have  been  quizzical  if  his  heart  could  have  descended 
so  far  toward  ill  nature,  and  after  a  pause  he  re- 
sponded in  Ojibway,  "I've  more  help  now  than  I  know 
what  to  do  with,  Soangetaha.  Did  you  ever  see  a 
small  party  with  so  much  baggage,  and  so  many  to 
do  for  them?" 

"The  ladies  are  not  used  to  our  kind  of  traveling," 
said  Strongheart,  in  the  same  tongue. 

"Oh !  aren't  they  ?  Well,  when  they  do  get  used  to 
it,  let  me  know.  I  never  traveled  with  people  more 
contented,  or  easier  to  get  on  with.  The  old  lady  does 
what  she's  told  and  stays  put  without  a  murmur,  and 
the  young  one — ayah!"  and  Winterton  looked  admir- 
ingly toward  the  visitors  who  at  the  moment  were 
conversing  with  Kiwetin.  "The  young  one!  I  tell 
you,  Soangetaha,  if  I  were  thirty  years  younger  she 
shouldn't  leave  this  country  without  taking  me  with" 
her." 

"Why,  you  old  softy!"  cried  Strongheart,  delighted 
to  hear  Dorothy  praised,  "I  never  knew  you  to  be 
disturbed  by  a  pretty  face  before.  What's  happened  ?" 

"It  isn't  her  prettiness,"  said  Winterton,  "though 
that  beats  anything  I  ever  saw,  but  it's  the  way  she 
fits  in  with  whatever  is  doing.  She's  forever  wanting 
to  help  somebody,  and  generally  she  knows  how  with- 
out asking.  She  could  easily  make  a  fool  of  any  man, 
I'm  thinking." 

"Don't  be  alarmed,  Winterton,  she  won't  try." 
261 


STRONGHEART 

Strongheart,  happy  as  a  child,  having  seen  that  Win- 
terton  understood  the  local  arrangements,  joined  the 
group  about  the  Chief. 

"What  has  Mr.  Winterton  been  saying  about  us?" 
demanded  Mrs.  Nelson.  "My  ears  are  tingling,  so  I 
know  he  has  been  telling  tales." 

"Quite  right,  Mrs.  Nelson.  He  has  been  compli- 
menting you  and  your  daughter  as  good  travelers. 
You  have  become  acquainted  with  my  father,  I  see." 

"Yes,  Frank  introduced  us.  I  have  been  trying  to 
tell  him  what  a  pleasure  it  is  to  us  to  visit  his  country." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Kiwetin,  "you  welcome.  I  am  only 
sorry  that  Livingston  could  not  come  with  you.  He 
is  fine  young  man.  Soangetaha  tells  me  he  has  crossed 
big  bitter  water." 

"He  and  his  sister  went  to  Europe,"  Mrs.  Nelson 
explained. 

"Yes.  I  understand  there  are  many  small  countries 
there,  each  with  great  many  people,  and  I  have  often 
wondered  how  there  could  be  room  for  them  all." 

"They  are  certainly  more  crowded  than  you  are," 
said  Mrs.  Nelson.  "You  have  room  enough." 

"Well,  yes,  I  suppose  so,"  Kiwetin  admitted  dubi- 
ously. "We  don't  get  in  each  others'  way  very  much, 
but  white  men  are  putting  up  sawmills  and  building 
towns  in  every  direction.  They  pressing  us  closer 
every  year."  He  was  interrupted  by  a  coughing  fit. 
"Yes,  yes,"  he  added,  wiping  his  eyes  when  he  could 
speak  again,  "I  suppose  there  is  room  enough  for  us. 
Is  there  no  chance  that  Livingston  will  come  up  this 
Summer  ?" 


STRONGHEART 

"I'm  afraid  not,"  Frank  answered.  "He  has  planned 
to  be  away  nearly  three  months,  and  then  college  be- 
gins again.  A  year  from  now  I'll  bet  you  nothing  can 
keep  him  away." 

"I  should  like  to  see  him  again,"  said  Kiwetin,  som- 
brely. 

Strongheart  conducted  his  visitors  to  the  Chief's 
wigwam,  and  then  excused  himself  that  he  might  see 
that  all  his  arrangements  were  observed  in  the  placing 
of  their  tents. 

"I've  had  one  of  my  life's  desires,"  said  Dorothy, 
when  they  were  alone.  ''Ever  since  I  read  Dick's  letters 
I  have  wanted  to  hear  Chief  Kiwetin  say  'Yes,  yes.' " 

Her  brother  laughed.  "It  doesn't  take  much  provo- 
cation to  bring  that  out,"  he  said. 

"I  came  near  laughing,  too,  the  first  time  he  said 
it,"  Dorothy  went  on.  "I  had  forgotten  to  expect  the 
mannerism,  and  when  he  used  it  in  that  hasty  way,  as 
if  he  were  apologizing  for  putting  you  to  the  trouble 
of  speaking,  the  impression  given  by  Dick's  letters 
came  over  me,  and  I  had  all  I  could  do  to  keep  from 
laughing  outright.  And  then  later,  when  he  said 
'Yes,  yes,'  again,  I  wanted  to  cry." 

"Good  gracious!    Why?" 

"Didn't  you  hear  him  cough  ?  I'm  afraid  the  Chief 
is  in  a  bad  way.  Did  he  cough  like  that  last  Sum- 
mer?" 

"Not  that  I  remember.     I  s'pose  he's  caught  cold." 

Dorothy  said  nothing  more  on  this  matter,  for  the 
reason  that  her  soul  was  heavy  with  apprehension 
which  seemed,  even  to  herself,  exaggerated  in  com- 

263 


STRONGHEART 

parison  with  its  cause.  Why  should  she  be  disturbed 
by  an  old  man's  cough  ?  Of  course  she  was  interested 
in  Kiwetin,  and  regret  that  he  should  be  ailing  was 
natural;  but  she  knew  no  reason  why  the  Chief's 
health  should  appeal  to  her  as  such  a  personal  affair. 
She  felt  as  if  a  prophet  had  foretold  her  own  unhappi- 
ness,  but  she  said  to  herself  that  her  brother's  careless 
view  was  the  right  one,  namely,  that  there  was  no 
evidence,  even  in  a  distressing  cough,  to  warrant  the 
supposition  that  this  dweller  in  the  open  was  in  a  seri- 
ous condition. 

The  visitors  saw  little  of  Strongheart  until  evening. 
To  him  it  seemed  impossible  to  restrain  the  impulse  to 
seek  her  presence,  and  this  very  attraction  decided 
him  to  resist  by  occupying  himself  elsewhere  in  pro- 
viding for  her  comfort.  So  he  gave  unnecessary  help 
and  oversight  in  setting  up  the  camp,  and  it  was  Frank 
who  took  Dorothy  and  his  mother  from  one  wigwam 
to  another,  introducing  them  to  Black  Eagle,  Gezhik- 
way,  and  such  others  as  had  been  in  the  village  dur- 
ing his  visit  of  the  preceding  Summer. 

Dorothy  found  everything  fascinating,  and  glimpses 
of  Strongheart  busy  at  a  distance,  were  quite  enough 
to  prevent  her  from  wondering  why  he  was  not  in 
constant  attendance.  Her  soul  was  still  as  serene  as 
the  Summer  day  with  respect  to  the  impending  crisis 
in  her  life.  Indeed,  Dick  Livingston  was  much  more 
in  her  thoughts  that  day  than  was  Strongheart,  for 
every  step  she  took  recalled  something  in  his  pleasant 
letters,  and  her  heart  ached  not  a  little  as,  now  and 
then,  her  memory  recurred  to  the  disappointment  she 

264 


STRONGHEART 

had  been  obliged  to  inflict  on  the  good  fellow.  "Why," 
she  sometimes  asked  herself,  "why  is  it  that  I  do  not 
and  cannot  think  of  Dick  as  he  wishes  me  to?  What 
have  I  done  that  I  must  be  the  source  of  pain  to  the 
best  friend  I  have?" 

Mrs.  Nelson  invited  the  Chief  and  Strongheart  to 
supper  at  her  camp,  and  both  came  without  ceremony. 
Dorothy  noticed  that  Strongheart  was  remarkably' 
silent,  quite  like  the  passive  stranger  she  remembered 
on  the  occasion  of  her  first  meeting  with  him.  She 
wondered  if  it  might  be  because  of  his  father's  pres- 
ence, that  is,  that  at  home  he  must  abide  by  the  ancient 
customs  of  his  people  and,  despite  his  maturity  and 
education,  speak  only  when  the  elder  man  permitted? 

Doubtless  there  was  that  in  the  situation  as  a  factor, 
but  Strongheart's  silence  was  not  indicative  of  inactiv- 
ity. His  senses  were  alert,  his  reason  at  exercise. 
Then,  as  ever  throughout  the  visit,  he  was  covertly 
watching  and  studying  Dorothy.  Whatever  passed 
before  her  eyes,  whatever  happened  by  accident  or 
prearrangement,  he  observed  its  effect  on  her,  esti- 
mating the  impression  it  made,  and  weighing  it  for 
its  possible  influence  on  his  future.  Thus,  when  the 
long,  bright  hours  between  supper  and  sunset  had 
passed,  and  twilight  began  slowly  to  drift  down  upon 
the  lake,  he  saw  her  eyes  dreamily  reflect  the  chang- 
ing colors,  her  lips  half  part  in  appreciation  of  beauty 
that  found  its  complement  in  the  speechless  places  of 
her  soul.  His  land  was  taking  possession  of  her,  and 
she  was  content.  And  a  little  later,  when  the  stars 
shone  with  such  brilliance  as  they  never  display  in  the 

265 


STRONGHEART 

atmosphere  of  the  metropolis  and  its  neighborhood, 
when  the  islands  lost  their  outlines  and  merged  in  the 
general  shadow,  when  the  smoldering  campfire 
worked  its  wizardry  and  colored  the  faces  of  all  so 
that  visitors  and  O  jib  ways  seemed  to  be  of  the  same 
race,  he  saw  her  eyes  suddenly  dilate  with  glad  sur- 
prise, he  saw  that  she  caught  her  breath  and  held  it 
as  if  she  would  still  even  the  beating  of  her  heart  that 
she  might  not  miss  the  faintest  sound  that  came  glid- 
ing across  the  silent  floor  of  water  to  her  as  a  special 
offering  of  the  O  jib  way  people  to  their  guest.  For, 
somewhere  out  on  the  lake,  was  a  canoe,  or  a  flotilla, 
may  be,  whose  passengers  were  singing.  Distance, 
and  the  water,  and  the  holiness  of  night  softened  the 
voices  and  smoothed  away  their  crudities;  the  melody 
rose  and  fell  as  if  it  sprang  from  one  throat ;  the  high 
tones  rang  with  the  glad  spontaneity  of  bird  warblings, 
and  the  low  tones  at  the  end  lingered  as  if  reluctant 
to  finish,  and  died  away  into  breathless  silence. 

Dorothy  knew  the  song.  It  was  one  of  those  she 
had  laboriously  reduced  to  notes  and  framed  with 
harmony  that  could  but  approximate  to  the  exquisite 
enhancement  given  by  Nature's  surroundings ;  Strong- 
heart's  first  song,  the  song  of  elopement.  She  turned 
to  see  him  looking  inquiringly  at  her,  and,  interpret- 
ing his  glance  to  ask  whether  she  recognized  the  song, 
she  nodded  and  smiled,  and  then  gave  attention  again 
to  the  distant  music.  It  seemed  to  him  that  the  spirit 
of  his  people  appealed  to  her  through  their  art,  and 
that  she,  as  a  gracious  queen,  gave  favorable  ear  to 
the  petition. 

266 


STRON  GHEART 

"Beautiful!"  she  exclaimed  under  her  breath,  when 
the  last  strain  had  dissolved  in  the  night,  leaving  the 
darkness  sweet  with  memories  of  music;  "Mamma, 
did  you  ever  hear  anything  so  impressive?" 

"Never,"  replied  Mrs.  Nelson.  "The  effect  is  quite 
unlike  that  of  music  generally.  I  suppose  it  is  the 
unexpectedness,  and  the  mystery  of  darkness,  and  the 
peaceful  surroundings,  that  make  it  seem  like  a  reli- 
gious service.  I'm  afraid  I  can't  express  it,  but  it's 
awe-inspiring." 

"Almost  uncanny,"  suggested  Frank. 

"What  does  it  mean,  Strongheart  ?"  Mrs.  Nelson 
asked. 

"The  song,  Mrs.  Nelson?    Surely  you  remember  it?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I've  heard  you  sing  it  in  your  two  lan- 
guages. What  I  meant  was,  is  there  any  special  sig- 
nificance in  the  singing  now,  at  this  time  and  place?" 

"I  think  not,"  Strongheart  replied.  "Some  of  the 
people  have  gone  out  on  the  lake  in  the  cool  of  the 
evening  for  pleasure,  and  they  sing.  That  is  all. 
The  whites  do  the  same,  don't  they?" 

"Never  a  tribe  of  whites  had  surroundings  to  exalt 
their  pleasure  to  such  poetic  heights,"  said  Dorothy, 
"and,  so  far  as  I  have  observed,  no  party  of  whites 
ever  sang  spontaneously  music  that  seemed  so  appro- 
priate, so  essential  a  part  of  the  scene  and  atmos- 
phere." 

"You're  right  there,  Dorothy,"  said  her  brother. 
"If  that  was  a  crowd  of  our  people,  now,  they'd  be 
bawling  'Marching  Through  Georgia,'  'Sweet  Bye- 
and-bye,'  and  'Bluebell,'  in  turn,  and  each  with  more 

267 


STRONGHEART 

lung  power  than  sentiment.  I  didn't  pay  much  atten- 
tion to  the  music  of  the  Ojibways  last  Summer,  but  I 
did  get  the  impression  of  a  difference  between  the 
Indian  and  the  white-man  point  of  view  with  regard  to 
the  art.  It  seems  to  me  the  average  white  man  sings 
for  the  fun  of  the  thing,  and  that  the  Indian  sings 
because  he  loves  music,  and  feels,  unconsciously,  per- 
haps, that  it  is  necessary  to  the  expression  of  his  deep- 
est feelings.  If  I  am  right,  it  follows  inevitably  that 
the  Indian,  whatever  the  words  of  his  song,  will  pro- 
duce music  more  appropriate  to  the  general  situation 
than  the  white  man  does." 

"Well  done,  Frank!"  cried  Mrs.  Nelson.  "Between 
the  camera  and  football  you  may  develop  into  a 
philosopher." 

"I  suppose  I  ought  to  apologize  for  having  a  serious 
thought  or  two,"  said  Frank. 

"Don't  let's  get  frivolous  just  yet,"  Dorothy  pleaded. 
"Frank  is  right.  The  white-man  music,  with  all  its 
beauty,  is  complex  and  artificial.  It  smacks  of  the 
hall,  some  of  it  dignified  and  some  of  it  cheap,  some 
proper  to  Carnegie  Hall,  some  to  the  vulgar  vaude- 
ville. None  of  it  speaks  of  Nature.  This  music  does. 
It  has  come  into  being  as  spontaneously  as  bird  songs, 
created  by  Nature-lovers — oh,  hush !" 

The  discussion  ceased  abruptly,  for  another  song 
was  floating  across  the  water  from  the  singers  in  dark- 
ness upon  it,  and,  as  his  guests  bent  their  attention 
to  the  music,  and  Strongheart  concentrated  all  his 
thoughts  on  Dorothy,  he  wondered  if  his  people  were 
forging  chains  of  delight  to  bind  her  to  their  land  and 

268 


STRONGHEART 

themselves.  And  just  when  wonder  grew  to  convic- 
tion that  it  would  be  so,  his  soul  drew  back,  abashed. 
How  had  he  dared  cherish  such  dreams?  What  had 
become  of  his  reason  ?  What  folly  to  pose  himself  for 
an  instant  as  worthy  of  her!  She  seemed  even  then 
so  far  away,  existent  in  so  fine  an  atmosphere  that  the 
breath  of  her  worshiper  would  poison  it — what  could 
he,  then,  but  sigh  over  her  utter  unattainability  ? 

Strongheart's  humility  endured  throughout  the  en- 
tire visit.  Not  once  until  the  day  of  departure  came, 
did  Strongheart  the  man  overcome  Strongheart  the 
worshiper.  Yet  always  was  he  watchful,  observant  of 
every  slight  manifestation  of  the  impression  made  upon 
her  by  his  people.  Her  interest  was  unmistakable ; 
her  sympathy  seemed  to  be  deeply  stirred,  not  as  one 
who  pities,  but  who  loves.  The  children  scampered 
after  her,  and  were  content  to  sit  still  with  her;  the 
squaws,  bashful,  embarrassed  by  her  attention,  yet 
smiled  sheepishly,  and  giggled  behind  their  aprons 
when  she  spoke  to  them;  the  old  men  nodded  their 
heads  approvingly  when  she  passed. 

One  of  their  excursions  took  them  to  the  reserva- 
tion where  Dorothy  saw  the  log  huts  which  the  Chief 
condemned  as  improper  for  Indian  habitation.  She 
saw  the  meagre  farms,  little  more  than  gardens,  the 
trader's  store,  the  pathetic  attempts  of  some  of  the 
people  to  imitate  the  whites  in  the  decoration  of  their 
rooms,  colored  supplements  of  Sunday  newspapers 
taking  the  place  of  paintings,  an  atrocious  chromo 
here  and  there  insulting  the  landscape.  In  more  than 
one  house  she  found  a  cabinet  organ.  Nobody  could 

269 


STRONGHEART 

play  on  it,  but  there  were  children  in  the  family  who 
some  day  might  learn,  and  meantime,  when  a  stray 
visitor  like  Dorothy  played,  all  the  neighbors  gathered 
to  listen,  awestruck,  too  overwhelmed  with  delight  to 
speak.  On  a  Sunday  they  went  to  the  rude  little 
church  where  the  missionary,  one  of  those  rare  work- 
ers who  realize  how  necessary  it  is  for  the  white 
teacher  to  submerge  himself  among  his  people,  con- 
ducted the  entire  service  in  Ojibway. 

"Ah,  Strongheart !"  said  Dorothy,  after  this  visit, 
"what  a  mission  you  have !  To  be  the  leader  and  guide 
of  all  these  good  people!  How  they  need  you,  and 
how  you  will  toil  for  them !  It  seems  to  me  a  glorious 
prospect.  So  much  higher  and  better  than  the  careers 
our  white  boys  look  forward  to." 

"Then,  Miss  Nelson,"  said  he,  hesitatingly,  "you 
think  the  people  worth  the  effort?" 

"Why,  Strongheart!  are  they  not  human  beings? 
I  should  think  them  worth  the  effort,  the  most  strenu- 
ous effort  and  greatest  sacrifice  of  which  their  leader 
was  capable,  even  if  they  were  degraded  and  insensi- 
ble ;  and  they're  not  degraded." 

"No,  not  degraded,"  said  he,  "but  I  wonder  if  you 
see  how  motionless  they  are?  how  hard  to  start  from 
the  rut." 

"I  apprehend  it,  I  think,"  she  answered.  "It  will 
take  vast  patience,  and  the  work  can  only  be  begun  in 
your  lifetime,  but  what  a  start  you  can  give  it !" 

Dorothy  would  have  liked  to  linger  the  Summer 
through  in  Ojibway  land;  even  Mrs.  Nelson  left  it 
with  pleasant  regrets;  but  the  visit  had  to  be  brief, 

270 


STRONGHEART 

because  Dorothy  had  her  work  to  do  in  sultry  August 
among  the  poor  of  New  York;  and  all  too  soon  the 
morning  came  when  Winterton  dismantled  the  camp 
and  loaded  most  of  the  articles  in  a  canoe.  Outfit  for 
one  man  was  left  behind,  for  Frank  was  to  return, 
after  escorting  his  mother  and  sister  to  the  Soo,  for 
an  extended  trip  northward  with  Winterton  and  the 
camera.  On  that  morning  Strongheart  endured  a 
mighty  struggle  with  himself.  It  was  the  imperious 
demand  of  Nature  that  he  speak  and  tell  her  all  that 
was  in  his  soul;  reason  assured  him  that  it  was  not 
yet  time.  Blind  passion  cried  that  if  he  let  her  go 
uninformed,  she  would  never  return — not  to  his  coun- 
try, but  to  her  present  emotional  state ;  that  no  condi- 
tions in  the  city  could  be  so  favorable  to  his  desires 
as  these ;  but  reason  resisted !  The  hour  was  not  yet. 
The  memory  of  this  land  would  endure  with  her  as  a 
vital  part  of  her  being,  or  it  would  fade;  he  would 
know  after  his  return  to  college;  reason  and  hunger 
for  the  civilized  life  bade  him  wait  till  then,  when  he 
could  direct  his  course  according  to  the  permanence 
or  transitoriness  of  her  immediate  impressions.  Rea- 
son was  almost  as  blind  as  passion,  but  it  triumphed, 
and  the  silence  of  the  Indian  was  on  him  as  he  exerted 
all  his  inheritance  of  repression;  but  the  desire 
of  his  soul  cried  in  his  eyes,  and  the  look  which 
Dorothy  caught  as  she  shook  his  hand  in  farewell 
pierced  to  the  depths  of  her  nature,  and  when  she 
took  the  paddle  which  he  handed  her,  she  could  hardly 
hold  it 

"Bye-bye,  old  fellow,"  she  heard  her  brother  say, 
271 


STRONGHEART 

V 

his  cheerful  voice  seeming  at  a  great  distance;   "see 

you  later.    Get  busy,  Dorothy." 

Mechanically  she  dipped  her  paddle;  for  a  few 
strokes  her  arms  were  nerveless;  a  truth  had  been 
revealed  to  her  too  suddenly  for  calm  acceptance. 
Well  was  it  that  the  exigencies  of  the  moment  com- 
pelled her  to  keep  her  face  away  from  her  brother's. 


272 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  PLOTTER 

The  great  crisis  in  Strongheart's  life  came  early  in 
the  next  academic  year,  when  incidents  in  connection 
with  a  game  of  football  set  the  O  jib  way  and  his  friends 
face  to  face  with  an  elemental  problem,  and  forced 
them  into  new  relationships. 

Nelson  was  again  the  captain  of  the  Columbia 
Eleven,  and  his  best  individual  subordinates  were 
Strongheart  and  Livingston.  General  interest  in  the 
team  and  its  prospects  rose  to  an  unprecedented  pitch 
as  the  season  drew  to  its  close  because,  first,  Colum- 
bia's most  formidable  rival  had  an  exceptionally  strong 
eleven,  and,  second,  because  it  looked  as  if  Columbia 
would  go  upon  the  field  for  the  decisive  game  handi- 
capped by  the  absence  of  at  least  one  of  its  best  play- 
ers. Strongheart  had  met  with  a  slight  accident; 
a  burly  adversary  had  fallen  on  him  in  a  scrimmage 
in  such  a  way  as  to  strain  the  tendon  of  his  ankle. 
The  Indian  was  unable  to  finish  that  game,  and  the 
surgeon  had  expressed  grave  doubt  whether  he  could 
venture  to  play  again  during  the  season. 

From  the  beginning  of  the  academic  year,  Living- 
ston had  devoted  himself  to  football  with  ardor  that 
surprised  his  associates  and  caused  no  little  comment, 

2T3 


STRON GHEART 

all  of  the  most  favorable  character.  It  was  generally 
supposed  that  his  extraordinary  interest  was  due  to 
the  fact  that  this  was  his  senior  year  at  the  University, 
and  the  last  occasion,  therefore,  when  he  could  play 
the  game  for  his  college.  The  fact  was  that  Living- 
ston had  exalted  the  game  to  a  degree  of  romanticism 
which  is  not  altogether  uncommon  among  students 
who  have  come  within  sight  of  the  end  of  their  school 
days.  He  had  hastened  to  Dorothy  after  his  return. 
If  he  had  cherished  anticipation  of  finding  her  more 
favorably  disposed,  he  knew  his  disappointment  at  the 
first  glance  into  her  eyes.  Affection  of  the  sisterly 
sort  shone  certainly  in  their  limpid  depths,  but  a 
definite  regret  also.  It  required  no  extraordinary  gift 
of  divination  to  perceive  that  she  had  nerved  herself 
sorrowfully  but  determinedly  to  oppose  him.  Yet  he 
must  have  her  attitude  in  plain  words. 

"Your  letters  were  delightful,  Dick,"  she  said. 

"And  not  too  personal?"  he  suggested. 

She  shook  her  head  with  an  elusive  smile. 

"Dorothy,"  said  he,  "the  matter  that  I  promised 
not  to  incorporate  in  words  was  beneath  the  lines,  just 
as  you  said  it  would  be." 

"I  am  sorry,  Dick." 

"And  you'd  much  rather  I  wouldn't  bring  it  to  the 
surface  now?" 

"It  is  not  pleasant  for  me  to  give  pain,  Dick." 

"Never  mind  the  pain.  There's  nothing  worse  than 
uncertainty.  I  want  to  be  clear  on  a  point  or  two. 
Try  to  forgive  me  for  one  blunt  question.  Are  you 
pledged  to  somebody — " 

274 


STRON G HE  ART 

"No,  no,  Dick!" 

"Then  I'm  still  in  the  running.  If  you'd  said  yes 
to  that  question,  I  should  have  said  God  bless  you, 
with  as  much  grace  and  sincerity  as  I  could  muster, 
and  have  let  you  alone  forever.  As  it  is,  you  can't 
help  the  fact  that  I  love  you,  but  I'm  not  going  to  be 
so  small  as  to  annoy  you  with  importunities.  I'll 
give  you  no  trouble,  Dorothy,  but  I  want  the  answer 
to  one  more  question.  I  don't  need  to  say  that  I've 
done  a  whole  lot  of  thinking  this  Summer.  I  have 
held  you  and  myself  up  to  my  analytical  eye  and 
looked  us  both  over,  and  I  have  said,  'Here's  a  pair 
of  us,  remarkably  alike  in  certain  respects,  totally 
unlike  in  others.  We're  the  children  of  wealth.  So- 
cially, we  are  equal ;  intellectually,  if  I  may  say  so, 
we  are  on  the  same  level ;  morally,  we  are  wide  apart. 
I  am  an  idler,  you  a  worker.  You  justify  your  exist- 
ence and  your  fortunate  circumstances  by  doing  good 
for  others.  I  don't  do  a  blame  thing  but  cater  to  my 
own  enjoyment,  which,  for  the  sake  of  the  argument, 
we  will  agree  is  reasonably  innocent.'  So  I  have  called 
myself  to  the  bar  and  condemned  myself  for  a  chump 
to  dream  that  I  could  win  your  love.  'Dorothy,'  said 
the  judge  in  these  proceedings,  requires  that  the  man 
who  loves  her  shall  be  one  who  accomplishes  things. 
He  needn't  necessarily  be  a  philanthropist,  I'm  sure, 
but  he  must  at  least  be  one  who  works  with  some  sort 
of  purpose.  You,'  said  the  judge,  addressing  me,  'do 
just  enough  studying  to  pass  your  examinations,  and 
when  you're  in  the  big  world  you'll  probably  escape 
jail  and  the  gallows,  but  you'll  be  about  as  useful  to 

275 


STRON GHEART 

the  community  as  a  rusty  bronze  statue  in  Central  Park, 
and  not  half  as  ornamental,  and  when  I  think  of  those 
statues,'  added  the  judge,  'that's  saying  a  whole  lot.'  " 

"Dick,"  cried  Dorothy,  almost  hysterical  between 
laughter  and  tears,  "I  never  condemned  you — " 

"I  know  it,"  he  interrupted.  "My  analytical  self 
did  that,  but  I  believe  you  approve  the  judgment. 
Isn't  it  a  fact,  now,  that  you  would  want  your  lover 
to  make  a  stir,  to  be  up  and  coming,  to  try,  at  least, 
to  do  something  worth  while?  Tell  me!" 

"Why,"  she  answered,  more  painfully  handicapped 
than  he  could  dream,  "I  do  admire  action  and  purpose 
as  opposed  to  idleness  and  indifference.  So  much  is 
true,  but  honestly,  Dick,  I  never  had  thought  of  you 
as  lacking  in  the  qualities  I  admire.  You  are  my 
friend—" 

"But,  to  win  your  love  I've  got  to  be  more  than 
what,  for  politeness  sake,  we'll  call  a  good  fellow. 
Now  let  me  tell  you,  Dorothy,  that  with  you  to  inspire 
me  I  could  struggle,  and  sacrifice,  and  fight  for  any 
sort  of  career  you  wished  me  to  undertake.  I  wish 
you'd  guide  me.  I'm  going  to  graduate  pretty  soon. 
What  shall  I  be?  You  must  help  me  find  out,  this 
Winter.  Meantime,  I'll  meet  all  the  requirements  of 
the  faculty  so  far  as  books  are  concerned.  That's 
nothing.  It  demands  no  special  exertion,  and  the  only 
thing  else  I  can  do  is  to  play  football  as  the  game  never 
was  played  before." 

She  looked  at  him  in  some  perplexity.  It  was  plain 
enough  that  his  lighthearted  way  of  discussing  the 
subject  was  all  assumption;  that  beneath  his  half 

276 


STRONGHEART 

bantering  manner  lay  earnestness  and  fine  feeling. 
But  the  sudden  intrusion  of  football  disconcerted  her 
for  a  moment. 

"See  here,  Dorothy/'  said  he,  noting  her  confusion, 
and  his  manner  becoming  at  once  unmistakably  seri- 
ous, "football  requires  sacrifice,  exertion,  and  purpose 
to  win.  It's  the  only  real  thing  I  have  to  work  for  at 
the  moment,  and  I'm  going  into  it  this  season  in  the 
same  spirit  with  which  the  knights  of  old  went  into 
the  tourneys.  I'm  going  to  play  the  game  feeling  that 
the  struggle  is  for  the  honor  of  a  lady  who  is  looking 
on  at  the  lists.  I  want  to  feel  that  the  lady  is  observ- 
ant, and  that  she  will  recognize  that  I  fight  for  her." 

"I  believe,"  said  Dorothy,  "that  the  ladies  in  the 
case  of  knights  of  old  were  not  bound  to  give  their 
hearts  to  the  victors." 

"Let  it  be  so.  The  knights  fought  valiantly  for  the 
mere  emblem,  a  ribbon,  or  whatever  it  was,  that  their 
ladies  bestowed  upon  them.  If  they  were  inspired  to 
the  utmost  effort  and  daring,  why  shouldn't  I  be? 
I'd  like  to  think  that  you  were  the  dame  whose  colors 
I  wore  in  the  combat.  I  haven't  any  purpose  in  life 
as  yet,  except  to  win  you.  Isn't  it  something  to  go  at 
the  one  thing  that  is  to  be  done  with  all  the  vim  of 
which  a  man  is  capable?  While  I'm  hunting  for  a 
career,  or  a  purpose,  football  is  to  be  played.  There- 
fore I'll  play  it  as  if,  for  the  time  being,  it  was  all  there 
was  in  life." 

"Good,"  said  Dorothy,  "I  agree  to  that.  Of  course 
I  want  Columbia  to  win,  and  equally  of  course  I  want 
you  to  do  your  best." 

277 


STRON GHEART 

"I  shall,  for  thinking  of  you,  Dorothy,  and  when 
the  time  comes  that  I  see  a  more  serious  purpose  ahead, 
I  shall  tackle  its  difficulties  in  the  same  spirit." 

True  to  his  attitude,  Livingston  refrained  from  mak- 
ing love  to  Dorothy,  and  he  plunged  into  football,  as 
noted  above,  with  such  excess  of  devotion  as  to  cause 
comment. 

"Don't  you  think  there's  some  danger  of  carrying 
this  thing  a  little  too  far?"  Strongheart  suggested  one 
day,  when  preparation  for  the  great  game  was  under 
discussion. 

"Can't  be  helped,  old  chap,"  Livingston  replied. 
"My  heart  is  in  this  game,  literally.  You  see,  Strong- 
heart,  I  am  much  interested  in  a  certain  young  lady, 
and  I  know  she'll  be  delighted  if  we  win.  I'm  going 
to  play  for  her  quite  as  much  as  for  the  University." 

"Right  enough,"  the  Ojibway  responded.  "The 
more  spirit  of  that  kind,  the  better  our  prospects,  but 
what  I'm  getting  at  is  that  you  may  endanger  the  very 
thing  you  strive  for  by  overdoing  the  training.  I'm 
not  a  good  judge  of  such  a  thing,  of  course,  for  I'm 
not  a  city  man,  and  my  summers  have  hardened  me 
so  that  I  don't  need  to  train  in  the  same  way  as  the 
rest." 

"That's  just  it,  Strongheart.  You're  always  fit,  as 
a  matter  of  habit.  Now,  in  my  case,  I  get  up  a  cer- 
tain degree  of  efficiency,  and  then  let  it  go.  All  last 
Summer,  you  see,  I  was  knocking  around  in  hotels  and 
trains  and  boats,  exercising  my  wonder-box  mightily, 
and  letting  my  muscles  go  to  waste.  I've  simply  got 
to  train  hard  so  as  to  be  at  my  very  extra  best.  It's 

278 


STRONGHEART 

for  her  sake,  don't  you  see?"  and  he  laughed  cheer- 
fully, as  if  he  would  not  have  his  intimate  disclosure 
taken  too  seriously. 

Buckley,  the  team's  coach,  was  not  so  gentle  as 
Strongheart  in  calling  Livingston's  attention  to  his 
error. 

"See  here,"  said  he,  a  day  or  two  later,  "you're 
going  to  be  no  good.  You  won't  be  worth  a  damn  if 
you  keep  on  this  way." 

Livingston  looked  so  scared  that  if  Buckley  had 
been  anybody  but  a  coach  he  would  have  relented,  and 
administered  his  admonition  in  soothing  terms.  But 
no;  it  is  the  province  of  the  coach  to  recognize  but 
one  feeling:  the  desire  to  win.  He  knows  nothing  of 
good  intentions.  Good  fellowship,  friendship,  com- 
mon courtesy,  do  not  exist  for  him  until  the  game  has 
passed  into  history. 

"I  s'pose  you  think  you're  doing  a  hell  of  a  good 
thing  by  training  until  your  muscles  are  brittle  as 
glass,"  said  the  conscientious  Buckley.  "First  thing 
you  know  you'll  faint  away  while  walking  onto  the 
field.  Don't  be  a  damn  fool  any  longer,  now,  but 
break  training  and  take  a  fresh  start." 

"Break  training!"  echoed  Livingston,  blankly. 

"Yes,  overeat,  sit  up  all  night,  go  on  a  tear,  take 
a  drink  or  two,  anything  so  long  as  you  give  your 
infernal  system  a  shock.  And  when  you've  sobered 
up,  get  down  to  work  again  with  something  like  dis- 
cretion. Get  Nelson,  or  Strongheart,  to  steer  you  if 
you  don't  know  how  to  take  care  of  yourself." 

Livingston  was  horribly  humiliated,  but  his  humilia- 
279 


STRONGHEART 

tion  was  nothing  to  his  fright.  It  was  maddening  to 
think  that  he  might  not  be  in  condition  to  play  in  the 
game,  or,  to  be  in  apparently  good  condition  and  yet 
really  in  such  shape  that  his  weakness  would  develop 
fatally  at  some  emergency  where  the  issue  of  the  con- 
test depended  on  him.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but 
to  take  Buckley's  harsh  rebuke  with  the  utmost  seri- 
ousness, and,  as  the  simplest,  quickest,  and  probably 
most  effective  way  of  breaking  training,  Livingston 
sped  straight  to  a  barroom  and  dosed  himself  with 
whiskey.  Buckley  had  demanded  that  he  give  his  sys- 
tem a  shock,  and  that  desideratum  the  fiery  liquor 
accomplished  with  admirable  fidelity  to  its  purpose. 
Weeks  of  abstemious  living  were  poor  preparation  for 
resisting  the  effects  of  alcohol,  and  when  Livingston 
emerged  from  the  barroom,  he  was  the  most  serene 
optimist  in  the  vicinity.  Buckley  was  right;  a  little 
rough  in  his  manner,  but  his  heart  was  all  right; 
many  a  game  had  been  lost  by  over-training,  all  right, 
and  Buckley  knew  the  symptoms;  he  had  diagnosed 
the  case  correctly,  and  the  remedy  had  been  applied  in 
the  nick  of  time;  everything  was  all  right  now. 

It  was  while  Livingston  was  in  this  condition  of 
perfect  contentment,  disposed,  indeed,  to  look  with 
loving  forbearance  on  the  foibles  of  all  mankind,  that 
Ralph  Thorne  ran  across  him,  and  Thome's  sharp 
eyes  took  in  the  situation  at  a  glance.  Thorne,  too, 
had  been  to  see  Dorothy,  and  he  had  retired  from  her 
presence  firmly  convinced  that  the  one  obstacle  to  his 
success  lay  in  her  attachment  to  another.  All  that  was 
mean  within  him  was  stirred  to  the  deeps  by  his 

280 


STRON  GHEART 

jealousy,  which  demanded  a  definite  object  on  which 
to  fasten  its  poisonous  fangs.  He  looked  over  the  field 
and  eliminated  quickly  all  but  Strongheart  and  Liv- 
ingston. It  was  difficult  to  believe  that  the  O  jib  way 
could  be  a  potent  factor  in  the  case,  but  everything  was 
possible,  and  Thorne  kept  him  in  view  during  the  early 
part  of  the  term  equally  with  Livingston.  He  had 
occasion  to  see  them  in  Dorothy's  presence  more  than 
once,  and  the  result  of  his  observations  was  the  fixing 
upon  Livingston  as  his  favored  rival.  Nothing  then 
would  do  but  he  must  discover  some  way  to  discredit 
Livingston  in  the  eyes  of  Dorothy,  and  much  gray 
matter  that  might  have  been  profitably  consumed  in 
overcoming  Pol-Econ  went  to  waste  in  vain  efforts  to 
invent  a  scheme  of  vengeance  whereby  Livingston 
might  be  disgraced  without  the  apparent  activity  of 
Thorne  himself  as  an  agent  in  the  matter.  When  he 
met  Livingston,  and  noted  his  condition,  the  possibility 
of  a  way  burst  upon  him  and  warmed  his  sore  heart 
with  pleasing  hope. 

"Hello,  Dick,"  said  he,  and  then,  with  a  fine  show 
of  indignant  surprise,  "you've  been  drinking!  What 
the  devil  do  you  mean  when  the  most  important  game 
of  the  season  is  yet  to  be  played?" 

"It's  all  right,  Thorne,"  Dick  responded  with  por- 
tentous gravity,  "I  assure  you  it's  all  right.  Buck- 
ley's orders.  Yes,  on  my  word.  Trained  too  fine,  you 
know.  Muscles  brittle  as  glass.  Break  training,  says 
Buckley.  Man  of  keen  discernment,  is  Buckley. 
Sound  judgment.  He  knows.  Take  a  drink  or  two, 
says  Buckley.  Give  your  system  a  shock  and  take  a 

281 


STRON GHEART 

fresh  start.  That's  what  I'm  doing,  Thorne.  Got  the 
shock  aboard,  and  tomorrow  I'll  unload  and  get  on  the 
water  wagon  again  and  go  to  work." 

"Well,  I'm  relieved  to  hear  that,"  said  Thorne, 
grasping  him  by  the  arm.  "Better  come  up  to  my  room 
for  an  hour  or  two.  I'm  on  the  water  wagon  myself, 
but  there's  a  drop  in  the  decanter  if  you  should  feel 
like  another.  And  up  there  nobody  need  know  that 
you're  drunk." 

"Drunk!"  cried  Livingston,  hotly,  "I'm  not  drunk. 
Who  says  so?" 

"Well,"  replied  Thorne,  laughing,  "I  noticed  it,  you 
see,  and  if  some  of  the  younger  members  of  the  team 
should  catch  on,  it  might  have  a  bad  influence  on  them. 
They  wouldn't  understand,  you  know." 

"That's  so,"  said  Livingston,  after  thinking  very 
hard  for  a  moment,  "that's  so.  Might  mislead  them. 
You're  right,  Thorne.  I'll  get  out  of  sight." 

To  Thome's  room  they  went,  where,  shortly  after- 
ward came,  as  Thorne  knew  they  would,  three  men- 
about-town,  or,  in  less  polite  language,  gamblers.  One 
of  them,  Fred  Skinner,  was  Thome's  regular  medium 
for  the  placing  of  bets  on  races  and  all  forms  of  ath- 
letic contests.  These  worthies  had  called  for  a  session 
at  poker,  and  Livingston  was  invited  to  join  the  game. 

"Stay  out  if  you  think  best,  Dick,"  said  Thorne, 
with  affected  kindness.  "Better  not  play  if  you  think 
your  judgment  would  be  at  all  hazy." 

"Pooh!"  exclaimed  Livingston,  "judgment's  all 
right.  My  mind  was  never  clearer.  Don't  make  me 
feel  like  a  fool,  Ralph.  Gimme  chips." 

282 


STRON  GHEART 

"Just  as  you  say,  Dick,  but  you  know  what  poker 
is.  We  play  the  game  for  all  it's  worth,  and  friend- 
ship doesn't  count." 

"I'm  no  kid,"  was  Livingston's  dignified  rejoinder. 

The  cards  were  shuffled  and  dealt,  shuffled  and 
dealt,  and  for  some  time  Livingston  managed  his  hands 
with  such  discretion  that  Thorne  feared  his  oppor- 
tunity for  revenge  would  slip  from  him.  He  placed 
the  decanter  within  Livingston's  reach,  and  cursed 
silently  when  his  guest  declined  to  apply  himself  to  it. 
Livingston  won  a  little,  and  that  fact  more  than  any 
other  completed  the  fuddlement  of  his  brain  that  had 
been  temporarily  stayed  by  his  effort  to  concentrate 
attention  on  the  game.  Shortly  afterwards  he  bet  all 
his  chips  against  Skinner  on  the  strength  of  a  full 
house  of  jacks.  Skinner  had  a  full  of  queens. 

"Well!"  exclaimed  Livingston,  as  he  saw  his  chips 
go  to  the  other  side  of  the  table,  "that's  poker.  I'm 
sure  I  didn't  over-bet  my  hand." 

"Sure  not,"  said  Skinner.  "It  was  your  bad  luck. 
That's  all.  Next  time  it'll  go  your  way,  probably." 

"Trouble  is  there  can't  be  any  next  time,"  said  Liv- 
ingston, after  fumbling  in  his  pockets.  "I'm  broke. 
You  see,  I  didn't  come  prepared  for  a  game." 

"That  doesn't  matter,"  said  Thorne.  "You  don't 
need  to  quit  the  game  just  for  the  lack  of  a  little 
money.  Give  me  your  I-O-U  for  what  you  want." 

It  struck  Livingston  that  this  was  remarkably  gen- 
erous, and  yet  it  was  quite  in  accord  with  his  own 
affectionate  regard  for  his  fellow-men,  and,  as  the 
dealer  paused  in  doubt  whether  to  give  him  cards,  he 

283 


STRON GHEART 

ended  what  little  hesitation  he  had  by  saying  he  would 
take  a  hand,  and  he  made  out  an  I-O-U  for  a  hundred 
dollars. 

The  game  proceeded  with  varying  fortune,  but  as 
the  hours  passed,  Livingston  had  occasion  repeatedly 
to  replenish  his  working  capital  by  exchanging  I-O-Us 
for  chips.  Luck  was  going  against  him,  it  seemed, 
but  it  might  turn.  He  was  persuaded  it  would  if  he 
stuck  to  the  game  long  enough.  How  much  he  had 
lost  he  did  not  know,  but  it  was  more  than  he  could 
stand,  and  the  only  way  he  could  get  even  was  to 
keep  on  playing. 

And  so  it  came  about  that  when  the  session  ended 
just  before  sunrise,  Livingston's  I-O-Us  were  counted 
and  found  to  amount  to  the  appalling  sum  of  three 
thousand  dollars. 

"Lord  Harry!"  gasped  Livingston.  "Three  thou- 
sand !  why ! — "  and  he  looked  blankly  at  Thorne. 

"Hard  luck,  Dick,"  said  Thorne,  lightly.  "You 
played  your  hands  all  right,  but  luck  was  against  you. 
That  sort  of  thing  will  happen  once  in  a  while  in 
poker,  you  know." 

"Yes,  but — "  and  Livingston  choked,  unable  to  con- 
tinue. 

"See  here,  Livingston,"  said  Thorne,  looking  at  him 
sharply,  and  putting  a  cool  edge  on  his  tone,  "do  you 
mean  to  say  you  can't  meet  those  obligations  of  honor  ? 
that  you  played  without  knowing  you  could  make 
good?" 

"Of  course  I'll  make  good"  Livingston  retorted, 
offended  at  once.  "I  was  merely  expressing  surprise. 

284 


STRONGHEART 

I'll  take  up  those  papers  in  a  day  or  two.  You  under- 
stand that  I  shall  have  to  send  home  for  the  money?" 

"Oh,  that's  all  right." 

"To  you,  yes,  but  I  suppose  I  may  be  pardoned  for 
not  looking  on  the  consequences  with  any  high  degree 
of  exhilaration.  It  will  probably  mean  my  immediate 
withdrawal  from  college." 

"Why !  what  the—" 

"Don't  think  I'm  playing  the  baby  act,"  interrupted 
Livingston,  hastily.  "I  should  pay  those  notes  if  I 
was  to  hang  for  it  next  minute.  I  ought  not  to  have 
spoken  of  it." 

"But  my  dear  fellow,"  Thome  protested,  "don't  mis- 
understand me.  You  mustn't  leave  college.  Why! 
you're  absolutely  essential  to  the  game  now  that 
Strongheart  is  out  of  it." 

"The  game  will  have  to  be  played  without  me,  I 
fear.  It's  all  right,  Thorne.  I  shouldn't  have  risked — 
not  the  money,  which  I  can  get,  but  the  game.  I  did, 
and  I  must  take  my  medicine.  You  see,  the  governor 
won't  stand  for  any  form  of  gambling.  He's  been 
willing  enough  to  put  up  for  my  scrapes  when  it  was 
nothing  worse  than  damages  to  some  barber  whose 
pole  had  been  ragged,  and  things  like  that,  but  gam- 
bling, and  such  a  sum,  ha!  it's  too  bad,  but  it'll  be 
home  for  me  and  no  mistake." 

"It  mustn't  be!"  cried  Thorne,  in  apparent  distress. 
"We  must  find  a  way  to  adjust — ' 

"No!  don't  offer  me  any  concession.  I  won't 
have  it." 

"Well,  I  admire  your  spirit,  Dick.  I'd  feel  the  same 
285 


STRONGHEART 

way,  but  suppose  I  could  suggest  a  way  to  get  even 
without  informing  your  governor,  or  going  to  any 
trouble  whatever?  It  can  be  done  in  one  coup,  Dick. 
Put  up  three  thousand  on  the  game.  We're  sure  win- 
ners." 

Livingston  laughed  bitterly.  "You  ask  a  man  who's 
cleaned  out  to  bet  three  thousand!  Why,  where  the 
mischief — " 

"I'll  raise  it  for  you,  Dick.  Come  now,  this  isn't 
offering  you  any  concession,  don't  you  see?  Give  me 
your  I-O-U  for  another  three  thousand,  and  I'll  get 
Skinner  to  put  it  up  on  Columbia.  How's  that, 
Skinner?" 

Skinner,  who  had  listened  interestedly  to  the  whole 
conversation,  said  he  could  easily  find  takers  for  the 
amount.  It  was  a  good  way  to  even  up  things,  he 
thought. 

Livingston  felt  horribly  tired.  There  were  splitting 
pains  in  his  head.  The  more  he  tried  to  think  of  it, 
the  more  it  seemed  that  any  device  which  promised 
to  relieve  him  from  exposing  his  folly  to  his  father 
should  be  adopted.  And  there  was  the  game.  He 
knew  his  worth  in  the  Eleven.  It  would  seem  like 
deserting  his  college  if  he  failed  to  grasp  an  oppor- 
tunity to  serve  her.  And  so,  when  he  walked  out  in 
the  cool  of  the  morning  to  find  his  own  quarters,  he 
left  evidence  behind  him  that  he  owed  six  thousand 
dollars  to  Ralph  Thorne. 


286 


CHAPTER  XX 
THE  GAMBLER'S  CHANCE 

The  real  purpose  of  Thome's  apparent  generosity 
to  Livingston  will  be  clear  when  it  is  known  that  his 
own  money  was  placed  heavily  against  Columbia.  He 
had  coolly  estimated  the  merits  of  the  opposing  teams 
and  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  Columbia,  with 
Strongheart  absent,  would  be  beaten,  and  he  had  bet 
accordingly.  Therefore,  as  he  forecast  the  issue,  the 
game  would  leave  Livingston  hopelessly  in  debt,  and 
his  ruin  and  disgrace  would  be  assured.  Thorne 
might  have  been  reasonably  sure  of  his  revenge  if  he 
had  left  Livingston  to  struggle  unaided  with  me  orig- 
inal debt  of  three  thousand,  but  he  preferred  not  only 
to  make  assurance  doubly  sure,  but  so  to  contrive  mat- 
ters that  he  himself  would  shine  in  a  favorable  light 
if  ever  the  circumstances  became  generally  known.  It 
would  look  as  if  he  had  gone  out  of  his  way  to  save 
Livingston. 

So  it  was  a  comparatively  contented  Thorne  who 
went  about  his  various  duties  during  the  few  days  suc- 
ceeding the  game  of  poker.  Then  he  was  subjected  to 
a  rude  shock.  Trustworthy  information  came  to  him 
to  the  effect  that  the  strongest  player  on  the  rival 
eleven  had  been  incapacitated  by  an  accident,  and, 

287 


STRONGHEART 

therefore,  could  not  play  in  the  game.  This  was  dread- 
ful, for  it  gave  Columbia  at  least  an  even  chance  of 
victory.  What  could  be  done?  Every  dollar  Thorne 
had,  or  could  borrow,  had  been  bet  against  Columbia, 
so  that  it  was  impossible  to  protect  himself  by  hedg- 
ing; but  his  financial  interest  in  the  outcome,  while 
serious  enough,  was  as  nothing  to  the  design  for 
wrecking  and  disgracing  Dick  Livingston.  Columbia 
must  lose  the  game  in  order  that  a  personal  grudge 
might  be  paid. 

The  man  who  will  bet  against  his  own  team  is  ripe 
for  treachery  than  which  nothing  is  worse  in  the  code 
of  college  ethics.  It  occurred  to  Thorne  that,  if  the 
sides  were  evenly  matched,  a  very  trifle  thrown  into 
the  balance  one  way  or  the  other  would  be  decisive. 
He  must  throw  that  trifle  himself  by  deliberate  mis- 
plays.  Even  the  plotter's  heart  stood  still  for  a  mo- 
ment in  ghastly  apprehension  at  this  thought,  for  he 
had  not  contemplated  the  necessity  for  such  crucial 
action;  but  there  seemed  actually  nothing  else  to  be 
done,  and  Thorne  shut  his  jaws  hard  together  on  the 
decision  to  do  it.  Then  came  another  blow.  The  news 
leaped  from  one  corner  of  the  university  to  another 
that  Strongheart  would  be  able  to  play !  Thorne  was 
in  consternation.  With  Strongheart  in  the  game,  and 
the  best  man  on  the  other  side  out  of  it,  the  idea  that 
one  player  like  himself  could  determine  the  issue  was 
reduced  to  an  absurdity.  It  would  still  be  possible, 
provided  only  the  circumstances  of  the  game  brought 
him  to  a  critical  play  at  precisely  the  right  moment, 
but  it  was  improbable  that  such  a  favorable  con- 

288 


STRONGHEART 

tingency  would  arise.  The  game  was  but  two  days 
away;  with  Columbia  victorious,  Dick  Livingston's 
debts  would  be  paid,  and  he  would  remain  in  college 
more  popular  than  ever ;  moreover,  he  would  likely  be 
a  hero  in  Dorothy's  eyes,  for  it  was  certain  that  he 
would  play  his  part  in  the  game  with  at  least  his  usual 
brilliant  effectiveness. 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  say  that  tactics  and  gen- 
eralship are  quite  as  essential  to  modern  football  as  are 
muscle,  speed  and  endurance.  A  vital  part  of  the  game 
often  consists  in  comprehension  of  the  tactics  of  the 
rival  side,  and  in  corresponding  moves  to  render  them 
futile.  It  is  the  aim  of  each  captain  so  to  mask  his 
strategy  that  the  adversaries  cannot  discover  what  is 
the  nature  of  the  move  against  them  until  it  is  too  late 
to  check  it.  To  this  end  secret  signals  are  employed. 
On  this  occasion,  as  it  appeared  possible  that  Colum- 
bia's signals  might  have  become  known  from  observa- 
tion of  the  games  earlier  in  the  season,  Buckley  had 
invented  an  entirely  new  set,  which  had  been  explained 
to  the  players  only  the  night  before.  If  the  captain 
of  the  rival  team  were  acquainted  with  the  new 
signals,  victory  for  Columbia  would  be  a  sheer  im- 
possibility. 

Thorne  stifled  the  last  of  his  feeble  scruples — his 
conscience  having  been  a  total  wreck  for  longer  than 
he  could  remember — and  wrote  a  list  of  the  signals, 
meaning  to  send  them  by  mail  to  Farley,  the  manager 
of  the  rival  team;  but  he  did  not  hurry  to  mail  the 
document,  for  there  was  plenty  of  time,  and  his  fertile 
brahi  was  stirred  by  a  new  idea  which,  if  it  could  be 

289 


STRONGHEART 

realized,  would  put  the  cap  of  perfection  on  the  who.le 
unsavory  project.  He  remembered  that  there  had 
been  one  absentee  at  the  meeting  of  the  team  at  which 
the  signals  were  explained;  and  that  Nelson  had  said 
he  would  arrange  to  give  the  absentee,  Billy  Saunders, 
a  list  in  plenty  of  time  to  master  them.  Thorne  be- 
lieved it  lay  within  the  possibilities  to  get  possession 
of  the  list  intended  for  Saunders,  in  which  case  that 
list,  and  not  the  one  in  his  own  handwriting,  would  be 
the  one  to  send  to  Farley.  It  was  only  a  remote  chance 
that  he  could  get  Billy's  list,  but  Thorne  was  a  gam- 
bler, and  he  took  the  chance,  postponing  the  mailing 
to  Farley  until  the  last  safe  moment. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  day  when  Thorne  prepared 
his  treachery  Nelson  and  Livingston  gave  a  tea  party 
in  their  rooms  to  which  they  invited  Mrs.  Nelson  and 
their  girl  friends.  It  was  to  all  intents  and  purposes 
a  football  tea,  for  the  girls  were  in  a  quiver  of  excite- 
ment over  the  impending  struggle,  and  the  members 
of  the  team  were  also  present  as  guests.  Thorne  put 
in  an  early  appearance  and  found,  as  might  have  been 
expected,  that  Nelson  was  in  a  panic  lest  the  quarters 
should  not  be  in  readiness  by  the  time  the  girls  were 
due  to  arrive.  Livingston  himself  was  still  among 
the  absent.  Both  hosts  had  not  only  been  faithful  to 
routine  college  duties,  but  had  put  off  preparation  for 
the  tea  in  sublime  ignorance  of  the  scores  of  details  to 
which  it  demanded  attention.  Consequently  every 
footballer  who  arrived  early  was  impressed  into  the 
service,  one  to  get  tea,  another  biscuit  and  cakes, 
another  dishes.,  and  so  forth,  and  those  to  whom  er- 


STRONGHEART 

rands  could  not  be  assigned  bestirred  themselves  to 
put  the  rooms  into  alleged  order. 

Thorne  passed  the  errands  on  to  younger  members 
of  the  team,  and  remained  in  the  sitting-room.  Nelson 
was  in  an  adjoining  room,  dressing,  when  Livingston 
bustled  in,  late  and  excited. 

"Hello,  Thorne,"  said  he,  throwing  down  an  armful 
of  books. 

Nelson  recognized  his  chum's  voice  and  called,  "I 
say,  Dick,  have  you  got  that  list  of  signals  for  Billy 
Saunders  ?" 

"Yes,  here  they  are,"  Livingston  answered,  taking 
an  envelope  from  his  pocket.  "I'll  leave  them  in  the 
desk  for  him." 

"All  right,  but  don't  forget  to  tell  him  where  they 
are,  and  hurry  your  dressing.  Let  Ralph  fix  things 
up." 

"You  hear,  Thorne,"  said  Livingston.  "Squint 
your  artistic  eye,  now,  and  get  on  the  job." 

Without  waiting  for  a  reply,  Livingston  hurried 
into  his  bedroom,  and  the  moment  his  door  banged 
shut  Thorne  obeyed  orders  by  "fixing  things  up"  to  the 
extent  of  removing  the  list  of  signals  from  the  desk 
and  putting  in  its  place  the  list  he  had  written  himself. 
He  was  alone  in  the  room  for  no  more  than  a  half 
minute,  but  it  was  enough.  The  gambler's  luck  was 
with  him  to  better  purpose  than  he  could  have 
dreamed,  and  the  next  student  who  came  in  found 
Thorne  putting  things  to  rights  with  extraordinary 
cheerfulness. 

In  due  course  came  big  Billy  Saunders,  and  when 


STRON  GHEART 

his  voice  was  heard,  Livingston  called  to  him  to  get 
the  signals  from  the  top  drawer  of  the  desk.  Billy 
opened  the  drawer,  glanced  at  the  contents  of  the 
envelope  lying  there  to  make  sure  he  had  the  right 
article,  and  put  it  in  his  pocket. 

Dorothy  was  one  of  the  company  that  soon  assem- 
bled, and  Thome  had  abundant  food  for  jealousy  in 
magnifying  her  agreeable  courtesies  to  Livingston 
into  marks  of  especial  favor,  but  he  was  very  well 
content  with  the  situation.  In  a  party  like  this,  where 
all  was  jollity  and  enthusiasm,  he  could  afford  to 
ignore  the  mere  politeness  with  which  Dorothy  greeted 
him,  and  wait  for  the  time  when  Livingston's  dis- 
grace should  turn  her  heart  from  him  and  leave  it 
open  to  a  more  discreet  suitor.  Strongheart  was  there 
as  a  matter  of  course,  but  his  demeanor  was,  as  usual, 
an  enigma  if  one  chose  to  scrutinize  it  with  eyes  of 
hate,  and  irreproachable  if  viewed  in  a  friendly  way. 
There  were  songs  and  laughter,  joyous  reminiscences 
of  football  achievements  past,  and  eager  expressions 
of  hope  for  the  game  to  come.  Altogether  the  tea  was, 
to  quote  Billy  Saunders,  a  howling  success,  but  there 
is  no  occasion  to  go  into  details  except  for  one  transac- 
tion in  which  Billy  figured  as  a  principal. 

Big  Billy  was  rather  more  in  love  with  Molly  Liv- 
ingston than  he  had  been  during  the  previous  year, 
and  he  had  advanced  his  suit  so  far  that  now  he  could 
not  only  talk  in  her  presence,  but  to  her,  and,  what  is 
more,  make  love  to  her.  There  came  a  brief  interval 
in  the  gay  proceedings  when,  the  others  having  trooped 
to  Nelson's  study  to  look  at  his  souvenirs,  Billy  and 

292 


STRONGHEART 

Molly  were  alone  in  the  sitting-room.  It  was  a  rare 
opportunity  for  intimate  conversation,  and  Billy  quick- 
ly took  advantage  of  it. 

"I  want  five  minutes'  conversation  with  you,"  said 
he,  assuming  aggressiveness  that  was  perfectly  trans- 
parent to  Molly.  She  knew  it  masked  a  heart  that 
still  palpitated  with  timidity,  and  that  this  tower  of 
strength  on  the  rush  line  could  be  bent  and  twisted 
by  the  mere  turning  of  her  little  finger.  It  was  sport 
royal  to  torment  and  worry  the  big  fellow,  and 
although  the  dogged  persistence  of  his  suit  had  really* 
won  her,  she  could  not  yet  forego  the  joy  of  leading 
him  as  in  a  leash  which  he  feared  every  minute  would 
be  slipped. 

"Well,  Mr.  Saunders,"  said  she,  with  mock  gravity, 
"on  what  subject,  if  you  please?" 

"The  same  I  made  a  noise  about  the  last  time  we 
were  alone." 

"Let  me  see;  what  was  it? — " 

"Oh,  come  now,  you  know  well  enough,  Molly. 
There  isn't  any  time  to  blow  in,  though  it  wouldn't 
take  you  more'n  half  a  second  to  give  me  an  answer 
to  my  question." 

Molly  appeared  to  resign  herself  to  the  inevitable. 
"Well,"  she  said,  "if  you  really  want  me  to  believe 
that  I'm  the  only  girl  you  ever  cared  anything  about, 
you've  got  to  do  something  to  prove  it." 

"But,  gee  whiz!"  cried  Billy,  badly  staggered,  "a 
fellow  can't  do  anything  heroic  nowadays  without  get- 
ting pinched.  Now,  if  you  and  I'd  only  lived  about 
'steen  hundred  years  ago — " 

293 


STRON GHEART 

"And  what  would  you  have  done  then,  brave  Sir 
Billy?" 

"Oh,  the  usual  stunts,"  Billy  answered  with  charm- 
ing simplicity.  "I'd  have  browsed  around  on  a  nickel- 
plated  plug  until  I  got  against  some  gazabo  that 
thought  his  lady  fair  was  the  whole  cheese.  Then  I'd 
tell  him  he  had  bats  in  his  belfry,  and  that  I  was  carry- 
ing a  pretty  fine  line  of  lady  fair  myself.  After  that 
I'd  put  him  out  of  business  just  to  show  that  my  lady 
fair  was  the  main  squeeze." 

"Glorious!"  cried  Molly.  "You're  awfully  roman- 
tic, aren't  you,  Mr.  Saunders?" 

"Yes,  I  guess  I  am  now,  but  before  I  met  you  I 
was  several  chips  shy  on  romance.  Just  the  same,  I 
don't  see  how  I'm  any  better  off.  You  see,  nickel- 
plated  plugs  are  out  of  style.  There  ought  to  be  a 
course  in  applied  romance  at  the  University,  but  there 
isn't — Say!"  and  his  honest  face  beamed  with  enthu- 
siasm, "I  know  what  I  can  do." 

"Well?"  said  Molly,  breathlessly. 

"If  you  want  me  to,  I'll  try  to  kill  the  other  center 
for  you  day  after  tomorrow." 

"Oh!"  and  she  shuddered  as  if  she  were  wholly  in 
earnest,  "not  on  my  account.  That  application  of 
romance  is  out  of  style,  too.  But  I'll  tell  you  what  you 
can  do.  Give  me  something  that  means  a  great  deal 
to  you.  Something  you've  sworn  you'd  never  part 
with." 

Billy  had  pulled  out  his  watch  before  she  was  done 
speaking,  but  it  was  obvious  that  such  a  gift  was  not 
in  harmony  with  her  idea,  and  he  regretfully  put  it 

294 


STRON GHEART 

back  and  began  to  feel  tentatively  of  his  scarf  pin. 
That,  too,  was  unsentimental  in  its  associations,  and 
Molly  shook  her  head.  "Some  girl's  picture,"  she 
suggested,  "or  something  of  that  sort,  you  know." 

"Why,  Molly,"  said  Billy,  despairingly,  "I  never  was 
much  of  a  lady's  man.  I  guess  this  list  of  signals  is 
the  only  thing  I  haven't  got  a  right  to  give  away. 
You  see,  no  girl  ever  thought  enough  of  me  to  give 
me  anything  of  her  own.  I  s'pose  the  signals  might 
do,  because  if  any  one  knows  that  I  let  them  go  out 
of  my  hands,  well,  it  would  be  down  and  out  for  mine." 

Molly  was  delighted.  "That  would  put  you  in  my 
power,  wouldn't  it?"  she  asked. 

"I  guess  it  would,"  Billy  replied  dubiously.  "I  can 
get  some  of  the  other  fellows  to  tutor  me  up  on  the 
signals  all  right,  so  the  game  won't  suffer.  But  just 
the  same  I  haven't  any  right  to  give  them  to  you." 

She  took  the  envelope  containing  the  precious  sig- 
nals and  held  it  before  her.  "It's  just  splendid,"  she 
cried,  "to  hold  a  man's  honor  in  one's  hands!" 

"For  heaving's  sake  don't  drop  it!"  Billy  pleaded, 
putting  his  hands  under  and  over  hers. 

It  is  entirely  reasonable  to  suppose  that  if  this  lit- 
tle comedy  could  have  been  brought  then  and  there  to 
its  conclusion,  that  Billy  would  have  had  the  answer 
he  sought  to  his  question;  but  just  then  there  was  a 
demand  for  music,  in  which,  when  it  was  of  the  col- 
lege variety,  big  Billy  was  essential ;  and  the  interrup- 
tion that  then  came  to  pass  in  the  impromptu  course 
in  applied  romance  endured  until  the  great  game  was 
over. 

295 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE   PENALTY   OF   FRIENDSHIP 

The  first  half  of  the  great  game  was  played,  and 
neither  side  had  scored.  Columbia's  men  were  in  their 
quarters,  listening  with  mingled  feelings  of  humilia- 
tion and  resentment  to  a  thorough  dressing  down  from 
Buckley.  They  had  played  such  football  as  never  had 
been  surpassed,  so  far  as  old  observers  knew,  and 
Buckley  made  it  his  business  to  convince  them  that 
they  had  utterly  failed  to  grasp  their  opportunities. 
By  every  means  at  his  command  he  sought  to  inspire 
them  to  greater  effort  in  the  next  half;  sarcasm,  con- 
tempt, invective,  pleading,  cautions,  appeals  to  college 
spirit  and  personal  pride,  rolled  from  his  tongue  with 
a  strong  admixture  of  feeling  profanity,  until  every 
man  of  them,  except  possibly  Strongheart  and  Nelson, 
who  understood  him,  was  exasperated  to  the  highest 
pitch,  and  quite  ready  to  take  the  coach's  demands 
literally. 

"Go  into  the  next  man  and  kill  him,"  said  Buckley. 
"Get  mad,  damn  you,  get  mad !" 

Buckley  spared  nobody.  Even  the  captain  came  in 
by  name  for  a  sharp  admonition;  Livingston  was  re- 
buked for  getting  penalized  so  that  the  team  lo-t 
twenty  yards;  and,  "Thome,"  said  Buckley,  savagely, 

296 


STRONGHEART 

'•you've  got  to  keep  low.  You  missed  your  tackle 
twice.  Now  if  you  do  that  again,  you  come  off  this 
team.  Three  times  they  got  through  you,  and  the 
second  time  the  whole  damn  line  came  through." 

Thorne  bit  his  lip  and  tried  to  look  indignant,  while 
his  wretched  heart  quaked  with  fear  lest  his  treachery 
be  discovered,  for,  of  course,  he  knew  why  he  had 
missed  his  tackle;  and  he  wondered  in  no  little  trepi- 
dation why  the  fellows  on  the  other  side  had  not 
seemed  to  be  bright  enough  to  take  advantage  of  their 
knowledge  of  Columbia's  signals. 

An  answer  to  his  unexpressed  query  was  soon  forth- 
coming. The  coach  had  exhausted  his  stock  of  abuse, 
when  a  trainer  came  in,  saying,  "Mr.  Buckley,  Far- 
ley wants  to  see  the  captain." 

"Farley?"  exclaimed  one  and  another;  "what's  up 
now  ?  What  does  he  want  ?" 

Buckley  looked  doubtfully  at  Nelson. 

"Have  him  come  in  here,"  said  the  captain. 

"All  right,  bring  him  in,"  said  Buckley,  to  the 
trainer.  Then  he  turned  to  the  wondering  men. 
"Now,"  said  he,  "the  manager  of  the  other  team  is 
coming  in  here.  What  he  wants  I  don't  know,  but  I 
want  this  team  to  look  pleased  about  the  game.  Here 
he  comes.  Look  happy,  damn  you,  look  happy!" 

Every  man  did  his  faithful  best  to  suggest  the 
Cheshire  Cat,  as  a  man  in  a  long,  loose  overcoat  and 
felt  hat,  appeared  at  the  door  and  paused  in  momen- 
tary embarrassment. 

"Come  in,  Farley,"  said  Nelson.  "You  wished  to 
see  me?" 

297 


STRON GHEART 

"Yes,"  replied  the  newcomer,  "I  tried  to  see  you  be- 
fore the  first  half,  but  could  not  get  at  you.  I'm  on  a 
rather  disagreeable  errand,  and  I'd  better  come  right 
to  the  point." 

As  he  spoke,  Farley  sidled  significantly  into  a  cor- 
ner, and  Nelson  and  Buckley  followed  him.  Then 
said  Farley,  in  a  low  tone,  "There's  a  man  somewhere 
in  Columbia  football  affairs  that  ought  to  be  kicked 
out.  A  complete  list  of  your  signals  came  to  me  by 
mail  yesterday." 

"Impossible!"  exclaimed  Nelson.  "I  can't  believe 
it." 

"I  don't  blame  you,  but  here  they  are,"  and  Farley 
took  a  stamped  and  postmarked  envelope  from  his 
pocket  and  handed  it  to  Nelson. 

"Then,"  said  Nelson,  "you  knew  our  signals  during 
the  first  half." 

Farley  held  up  his  hand  in  a  deprecatory  gesture. 
"Gently,"  said  he.  "We  make  sportsmen  at  our  col- 
lege, too.  Not  one  of  my  team  has  seen  the  list  except 
myself,  and  I  give  you  my  word  of  honor  that  I 
haven't  read  it.  We  shall  win  this  game  if  we -can, 
but  it  will  be  without  any  help  from  Columbia." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Farley,  I  was  too  quick,"  said 
Nelson,  extending  his  hand.  "Your  word  is  quite 
sufficient." 

"Well,"  Farley  responded,  grasping  the  offered 
hand,  "I  won't  keep  you  any  longer.  I  felt  that  it 
would  be  the  square  thing  to  bring  this  back.  Now, 
it's  up  to  you.  See  you  later,  Nelson." 

With  a  friendly  nod  to  Buckley,  the  rival  manager 
298 


STRON GHEART 

strode  away,  leaving  the  room  in  deathly  silence,  for 
all  the  men  were  consumed  with  eagerness  to  know 
the  occasion  of  Farley's  visit.  They  were  not  kept 
waiting. 

"Boys,"  said  Nelson,  his  eyes  blazing  wrath  such  as 
his  intimate  friends  had  never  before  seen  him  display, 
"some  member  of  this  squad  is  no  Columbia  man, 
and  has  got  to  be  kicked  off  this  team  before  next  half. 
Our  signals  were  sent  to  Farley." 

He  held  up  the  incriminating  envelope.  With  shouts 
and  gasps  of  astonishment  and  incredulity,  the  men 
leaped  to  their  feet.  Buckley's  harsh  voice  rose  above 
the  momentary  uproar.  "Who's  done  this?"  he  de- 
manded. 

For  a  perceptible  instant  the  deathly  silence  fell 
again.  Then  said  Thorne,  "Perhaps  you  can  tell  by 
the  writing." 

Nelson  immediately  undertook  to  profit  by  this  sug- 
gestion, but  one  of  his  hands  had  been  badly  banged 
in  the  play,  and,  after  he  had  fumbled  with  the  envel- 
ope a  moment,  he  handed  it  to  Strongheart,  saying, 
"Open  it  for  me." 

Strongheart  took  the  envelope,  withdrew  the  en- 
closure, glanced  at  it,  and  hastily  put  it  behind  him. 

"Well,"  said  Billy  Saunders,  explosively,  "who  is 
it?  Do  we  know  him?" 

"Let  me  see  it,"  said  Nelson,  reaching  out  his  hand 
for  the  list. 

Strongheart  did  not  stir.  "Don't  you  think  we'd 
better  wait  until  after  the  game  ?"  he  suggested. 

Thorne,  apparently  the  embodiment  of  loyal  indig- 
299 


STRONGHEART 

nation,  cried,  "No !  Let's  see  it  now ;"  and  Nelson,  sti! 
holding  out  his  hand,  and  speaking  with  the  authority 
of  the  commander,  said,  "Give  it  to  me." 

Looking  his  captain  straight  in  the  eyes,  Strong- 
heart  answered,  "Not  now,  Frank." 

"What's  the  matter?"  Nelson  demanded,  with  a 
frown  of  deep  perplexity.  "Do  you  know  the  writ- 
ing?" 

"I  do,"  Strongheart  replied,  maintaining  his  atti- 
tude, and  keeping  his  eyes  fixed  steadily  on  Nelson's. 

The  captain  was  terribly  disturbed.  There  was  no 
trace  of  resentment  because  his  authority  had  been 
flouted,  for  he  knew  that  on  the  field  Strongheart 
would  be  as  quick  to  obey  as  any  other ;  but  the  team 
was  in  disgrace;  the  traitor  to  it  and  Columbia  must 
be  in  the  room  at  that  moment,  facing  him  and  pre- 
tending innocence ;  it  was  imperative  to  eliminate  him 
before  the  final  half  was  played;  Strongheart  evi- 
dently knew  who  he  was,  and  that  steady  look  sug- 
gested some  mysterious  but  probably  good  reason  for 
delaying  disclosure ;  Nelson  had  profound  respect  for 
the  soundness  of  Strongheart's  judgment;  would  it 
not  be  wise  to  follow  it  now  ?  Inexpressibly  distressed, 
the  captain  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  his  part  in 
the  discussion  was  taken  by  others. 

"This  concerns  the  whole  team,"  said  Thorne,  with 
masterful  emphasis,  "and  the  whole  team  should  deal 
with  it." 

"Show  it  to  us,  Strongheart,"  said  Livingston.  "A 
man  who  would  do  a  thing  like  this  deserves  no  con- 
sideration." 

300 


STRON GHEART 

"Dick,"  Strongheart  responded,  "do  you  advise  me 
to  show  it?" 

"Yes,  of  course!" 

"Come!"  cried  Thorne,  as  Strongheart  still  main- 
tained his  statuesque  pose,  "we  can't  wait  all  day." 

Strongheart  looked  appealingly  at  Livingston,  and 
then  at  Nelson,  as  if  beseeching  them  to  throw  their 
influence  in  favor  of  his  policy  of  temporary  suppres- 
sion. When  neither  made  a  move  to  support  him,  he 
asked,  "Why  are  you  so  anxious  to  see  it  now?" 

The  virtuous  Thorne  took  it  upon  himself  to  an- 
swer :  "Because  we  have  a  right  to  know  that  the  man 
whose  shoulder  is  next  to  ours  is  an  honest  man. 
Come !  Will  you  show  it  to  us  or  not  ?" 

"I  will  not,"  said  Strongheart,  quietly. 

"If  you  don't,"  insinuated  Thorne,  "it  will  look  as  if 
you  had  reasons  for  concealing  it." 

"Of  course  I  have  reasons,  but  what  do  you  mean  ?" 

"It  will  look,"  replied  Thorne,  "as  if  the  writing 
were  your  own." 

For  the  first  time  since  he  put  the  signals  behind  his 
back,  Strongheart  was  stirred.  "Thorne!"  he  cried, 
his  voice  ominous  with  resentment,  and  he  made  such 
a  start  that  Livingston  stepped  in  front  of  him  with  a 
low  "Patience,  old  chap,  patience!" 

The  other  men  looked  and  listened  breathlessly.  It 
must  be  borne  in  mind  that  to  all,  except  one,  it  seemed 
impossible  that  the  team  could  be  betrayed  by  one  of  its 
own  members ;  to  all,  the  evidence  that  betrayal  had 
been  attempted  was  convincing ;  in  all,  therefore,  was  a 
tensely  eager  desire  to  fix  the  guilt,  and,  in  the  blind 

301 


STRON GHEART 

mystification  of  the  event,  a  natural  readiness  to  let 
suspicion  rest  on  any  toward  whom  the  finger  of 
accusation  should  be  pointed.  Thorne,  facing  the 
emergency  of  his  life,  understood  the  psychology  of 
the  crowd,  and  knew  that  he  must  take  advantage  of 
it  to  avert  suspicion  from  himself. 

"Show  me  the  list,"  said  he,  with  energetic  utter- 
ance, "and  if  I'm  wrong  I'll  apologize.  I've  got  noth- 
ing against  you  personally,  but  I  want  to  see  the  man 
who  wrote  that  kicked  off  the  team." 

Strongheart's  stubbornness  prevented  Thorne  from 
directing  suspicion  against  Livingston,  whose  loyalty 
would  have  been  doubted  no  sooner  than  the  captain's, 
but  it  did  put  Strongheart  himself  in  a  very  question- 
able light,  and  the  "crowd,"  for  such  the  team  was  at 
the  moment,  was  beginning  to  manifest  its  distrust  in 
unmistakable  glances  and  mutterings.  A  slight  pause 
followed  Thome's  last  demand,  during  which  Strong- 
heart  showed  no  disposition  to  yield,  and  then  Billy 
Saunders  took  a  hand. 

"Boys,"  said  he,  "you  know  Strongheart.  If  he's 
got  a  reason  for  not  showing  this  until  after  the  game, 
it  must  be  all  right.  I  say  we  leave  it  until  then." 

There  was  immediate  and  almost  general  dissent. 
Everybody  had  something  to  say,  and  in  the  confusion 
of  voices,  "No,  no!  Show  it  to  us  now,"  were  the 
words  that  compelled  attention.  Strongheart  per- 
ceived the  cloud  of  distrust  that  was  settling  upon  him. 
He  turned  appealingly  to  Livingston. 

"Dick,"  said  he,  "you  do  not  doubt  me,  do  you?" 

"Old  chap,"  Livingston  answered,  "if  the  signals 
302 


STRON  GHEART 

had  been  in  my  writing,  would  you  have  doubted  me  ?" 

"No,  Dick,"  said  Strongheart,  firmly,  "I  would  not." 

Livingston  turned  away  with  a  slight  shrug  of  his 
shoulders,  that  told  more  plainly  than  words  his  un- 
shaken confidence  in  Strongheart,  and  Nelson,  who 
had  now  had  time  to  think,  said,  "I  don't  doubt  you, 
either,  Strongheart,  but  we  must  make  some  expla- 
nation to  the  team.  Come !  out  with  it." 

"I  have  no  explanation  to  offer,"  Strongheart  re- 
plied; "but,"  addressing  the  team,  "I  give  you  my 
word  of  honor — " 

"It  is  your  honor  that  is  in  question,"  Thorne  inter- 
rupted, sharply. 

"I  shall  not  answer  for  it  to  you,  Thorne,"  said 
Strongheart. 

The  atmosphere  tingled  with  anger.  Every  man 
would  have  been  glad  of  an  opportunity  to  strike 
somebody.  Buckley,  who  had  asked  them  to  get  mad, 
bit  his  lip  to  repress  his  anxiety  lest  the  real  passions 
now  aroused  should  militate  against  effective  team 
work  in  the  next  half.  He  glanced  at  his  watch.  There 
was  yet  time  for  a  settlement  of  the  unhappy  affair, 
if  only  the  fellows  would  get  down  to  it  and  cease  use- 
less word  play. 

"Thorne,"  said  Nelson,  his  tone  sharp  with  exas- 
peration, "the  team  has  elected  officers  to  manage  its 
affairs,  and  we  don't  care  for  your  help  " 

"Then,"  Thorne  retorted  hotly,  "why  don't  the  of- 
ficers manage  its  affairs,  and  not  let  an  Indian  come 
here  out  of  a  wigwam  and  run  things  to  suit  himself." 

This  provoked  a  general  outcry.  The  captain  had 
303 


STRONCHEART 

yielded  his  authority  and  judgment  to  the  Indian,  the 
very  mention  of  whose  race  was  all  that  was  needed  to 
solidify  the  hostility  that  had  arisen  against  him.  So 
there  were  rebellious  demands  for  an  immediate  dis- 
play of  the  incriminating  list,  and  Nelson  was  hard 
put  to  it  to  restore  order. 

"Boys,"  said  he,  when  he  had  regained  their  atten- 
tion, "it's  better  to  handle  a  matter  like  this  with  the 
greatest  secrecy.  Meet  at  my  house  tomorrow  at  five 
o'clock  and  we'll  talk  things  over.  Until  then,  not  a 
word  out  of  this  team." 

Livingston  threw  his  influence  in  favor  of  the  cap- 
tain's policy,  saying,  "And  remember,  boys,  that 
Strongheart  has  not  admitted  that  it  is  his  writing." 

"Pooh !"  exclaimed  Thorne,  "that's  a  trick  to  use  to- 
morrow, and  I  demand,  in  the  name  of  the  team,  that 
at  least  one  man  see  that  list  now.  Then  we  shall 
know  tomorrow  that  it  hasn't  been  changed." 

Again  Thome's  suggestion  proved  to  be  popular, 
and  the  men  made  such  a  noise  recommending  it 
that  Nelson  felt  constrained  to  yield  to  it  as  a 
compromise. 

"Strongheart,"  he  said,  "will  you  show  that  list  to 
Billy?" 

"Yes,"  Strongheart  replied. 

Big  Billy  strode  up  to  him,  speaking,  as  he  went,  to 
Thorne  and  the  rest  of  the  team,  "I'll  look  at  it  for  you, 
but  I  want  to  say  right  here  that  if  it's  signed  with  his 
name  and  has  got  two  witnesses,  I  won't  believe  it." 

Strongheart  drew  Billy  as  far  apart  from  the  rest  as 
the  limits  of  the  room  permitted,  and  whispered,  "Your 

304 


STRON  GHEART 

word  of  honor,  Billy,  that  you  won't  tell  whose  writing 
this  is?" 

"Sure,"  Billy  responded;  "let's  see  the  thing." 

Their  backs  to  the  others,  Strongheart  displayed  the 
paper. 

"Judas  Iscariot!"  gasped  Billy,  "that's  Dick's  writ- 
ing!" 

"Hush!"  warned  Strongheart,  "if  Dick  knows  a 
word  of  this  he  will  go  all  to  pieces,  and  we'll  lose  the 
game." 

"So  that's  why  you're  taking  the  blame !"  said  Billy, 
in  an  awestruck  whisper. 

"We've  got  to  win  this  game,  Billy.  That's  the  only 
consideration  any  of  us  can  afford  to  recognize  just 
now." 

"Strongheart,  I'm  proud  to  know  you,"  and  Bill}' 
made  as  if  he  would  return  to  the  team,  his  duty  of 
inspection  over,  but  a  ghastly  thought  struck  him,  and 
he  halted.  "Holy  cat !"  he  whispered,  "if  that's  Dick's 
writing,  it  must  be  the  list  he  gave  me !" 

"How  did  it  get  out  of  your  hands?" 

"Why — "  and  Billy  stammered  awkwardly,  "I've 
got  to  keep  my  face  shut  as  much  as  you  have,  Strong- 
heart,  for  if  I  squeal  now  it  lets  in  a  girl." 

"A  girl?" 

"Yes,  I  gave  the  list  to — er — a  girl,  and  she's  made  a 
fool  of  me.  But  it  isn't  right  for  you  to  take  the  blame, 
and  I'll  tell  the  fellows—" 

"No!"  Strongheart  interrupted,  decisively.  "Give 
it  a  half  minute's  thought,  and  you'll  see  that  it  won't 
help  matters  now.  You  can't  expose  the  girl,  and  if 

305 


STRON GHEART 

you  try  to  help  me  out  it  will  only  make  Thorne  and 
the  rest  all  the  surer  that  I'm  guilty." 

"Then,"  said  Billy,  sombrely,  "we've  both  got  to 
keep  mum  to  shield  a  woman's  honor,  but  I  wish  I 
could  take  the  disgrace  for  you.  I — Oh !  damn  every- 
body!" and  in  despair  of  expressing  his  true  senti- 
ments, Billy  returned  to  the  team. 

He  found  to  his  dismay  that  mischief  had  been  bus} 
there  during  his  brief  colloquy  with  Strongheart.  The 
team  was  now  divided  into  two  camps,  one  of  which, 
when  Billy  returned,  consisted  only  of  the  captain  and 
Livingston.  All  the  others,  instigated  by  Thorne,  and 
falling  readily  under  his  aggressive  leadership,  were 
for  the  immediate  disgrace  of  the  culprit;  and  they 
were  convinced  that  the  traitor  among  them  was  the 
Indian.  If  it  had  been  any  time  but  the  middle  of  a 
game,  Nelson  would  have  resigned  the  captaincy  at 
once  rather  than  take  the  course  that  the  situation  forced 
upon  him ;  but  he  knew  that  resignation  would  stir  up 
worse  feeling,  and  that  out  of  it  might  come  the  election 
of  Thorne  in  his  place ;  and,  quite  aside  from  the  intense 
dislike  of  the  man  that  the  episode  had  suddenly  engen- 
dered, a  dislike  untainted  with  suspicion,  Nelson  felt 
that  Thorne  had  no  real  capacity  for  command  in  the 
field,  and  that  nothing  could  prejudice  Columbia's 
chances  in  the  second  half  more  than  his  relinquish- 
ment  of  authority.  It  was  bitter  to  reflect,  as  he  had 
to,  that  his  authority  in  the  quarters  went  for  nothing, 
for  he  was  faced  by  plain,  undisguised  rebellion.  The 
other  fellows  said  flatly  that  they  would  not  play  the 
game  with  Strongheart  in  the  team.  They  presumed 

306 


STRONGHEART 

to  dictate  to  their  captain,  but,  they  would  have  ar- 
gued, had  it  been  necessary  to  argue,  Nelson  had  sub- 
ordinated his  judgment  to  the  Indian,  who  had  re- 
belled successfully;  but  there  was  no  time  for  argu- 
ment, and  the  temper  of  the  men  was  not  suited  to  calm 
reasoning.  To  save  Strongheart  from  disgrace  re- 
quired a  captain  of  iron  will  and  as  great  indifference 
to  the  amenities  as  Buckley,  the  coach,  displayed ;  and 
Nelson,  an  efficient  captain  on  the  field,  respected  and 
obeyed  under  ordinary  circumstances,  lacked  the 
harsh,  dominating  qualities  needed  for  this  emergency. 
He  had  too  much  of  the  gentleman  and  too  little  of 
the  brute  in  him  to  subdue  insubordination.  Cold- 
blooded Buckley,  looking  on  at  the  scene,  gnashed  his 
teeth  in  impotent  rage,  for  this  was  a  feature  of  the 
game  in  which  he  had  no  right  to  interfere  upon  any 
circumstance. 

Despite  all  that  preceded,  the  blow  fell  on  Strong- 
heart  with  appalling  suddenness.  Turning  to  the 
team,  after  pocketing  the  signals,  he  said,  "Boys,  I 
want  to  say  one  thing.  I  do  not  blame  you  for  doubt- 
ing my  word,  for  the  thing  must  look  very  suspicious ; 
but  if  you  watch  my  play  next  half,  you  will  see  which 
college  I  want  to  win." 

The  men  stirred  restlessly,  and  averted  their  eyes. 

"Strongheart,"  said  Nelson,  hesitatingly,  "I'm  afraid 
— hang  it,  old  man,  you  must  know  what  I've  got  to 
say,  and  how  it  hurts  to  say  it,  but,  as  captain  of  the 
team,  I  have  no  choice." 

Strongheart's  eyes  sped  from  one  to  another  of  the 
sullen  faces  in  the  group.  Then  he  looked  at  his  cap- 

307 


STRON  GHEART 

tain.    "Do  you  mean,"  he  asked  slowly,  "that  they  will 
not  let  me  play  next  half?" 

"Yes,  and  I  can't  help  it,"  Nelson  admitted,  his  face 
hot  with  shame  at  his  impotency. 
"But,  Frank,"  Strongheart  protested,  "do  you  re- 
alize that  this  means  disgrace?" 

"It's  as  hard  for  me  as  it  is  for  you,  old  man,"  the 
captain  replied,  and  then,  turning  to  the  team,  "Boys, 
don't  you  think  we'd  better  keep  Strongheart  in  the 
game?" 

"Let's  keep  him  in,  boys,"  added  Billy. 

There  was  a  hubbub  of  replies,  all  to  much  the  same 
effect,  that  it  would  not  do  to  risk  the  half  with  a 
player  whose  loyalty  was  in  doubt;  and,  while  the 
angry  debate  continued,  Strongheart,  numb  with  hu- 
miliation, yet  saw  that  the  salvation  of  his  honor  rested 
in  his  own  hands.  He  had  but  to  display  the  incrim- 
inating list  to  spare  himself  the  worst  fate  that  can 
befall  a  student,  and  throw  the  onus  of  disgrace  upon 
another — his  friend. 

"It's  terrible  to  disgrace  a  man,"  cried  Livingston. 
"Have  we  the  right  to  do  it  on  mere  suspicion?" 

Thorne  answered  him :  "It  is  necessary  for  the  good 
of  the  team." 

"But  we  need  him,"  urged  Nelson.  "The  good  of 
the  team  requires  that  he  play." 

"We  don't  know  that  he'll  play  the  game,"  Thorne 
retorted.  "It's  too  dangerous,  and  we  haven't  the 
right  to  risk  it,  have  we,  boys?" 

The  chorus  of  answers  showed  that  the  team  had 
become  a  rabble  swayed  by  but  one  feeling,  desire  for 

308 


STRONCHEART 

victory ;  blinded  by  suspicion,  they  could  see  no  chance 
for  victory  with  their  best  individual  player  in  the 
field.  Their  madness  was  voiced  by  one  who  stepped 
from  the  ranks  and  cried,  "Kick  him  off  the  team !" 

Billy  rushed  upon  this  man  and  threw  him  half 
across  the  room.  "That's  about  enough  from  you," 
said  the  big  fellow.  "Now  you  hear  me  chirp  for  a 
little.  Some  of  this  push  is  going  to  be  at  Frank's 
tonight,  and  Strongheart's  going  to  be  with  us,  and  I 
want  to  remark  right  here  that  if  any  yap  out  of  this 
gang  lets  a  hint  of  this  business  get  in  front  of  his 
teeth,  he'll  stop  going  to  parties  for  about  three 
months." 

"Look  here,  Billy,"  said  Thorne,  "you're  making 
too  much  fuss  about  the  redskin.  I  shall  say  what  I 
please  without  your  permission." 

Billy  glared  contemptuously  at  Thorne  for  a  second, 
and  continued  his  address  to  the  team.  "Understand 
me,"  he  said.  "If  Strongheart  doesn't  play  next  half, 
it's  because  of  an  accident.  It  was  found  when  we  got 
to  the  dressing-room  that  Strongheart  had  gone  lame 
again,  see?  We  all  wanted  him  to  pl-y,  but  he  simply 
couldn't,  catch  that?  As  for  you,  Ralph  Thorne,  if 
you  open  your  mouth  about  this  tonight,  whether 
the  girls  are  present  or  not,  I'll  turn  you  inside  out." 

Buckley  at  last  strode  into  the  angry  group  with  his 
watch  in  his  hand.  "Stop  this  infernal  private  scrap- 
ping," said  he.  "We've  got  a  game  to  play,  and  time's 
about  up.  Get  ready,  men,  get  ready." 

The  men  immediately  began  to  get  their  accoutre- 
ments in  order,  and  Nelson,  such  a  lump  in  his  throat 

309 


STRON  GHEART 

that  he  could  hardly  speak,  approached  the  Indian, 
looking  as  he  felt,  not  only  sorry,  but  ashamed. 

"Strongheart,  old  man,"  he  began — 

"It's  all  right,  Frank,"  Strongheart  interrupted 
calmly.  "You  had  to  do  it.  You  had  to  save  the 
game,  and  it  was  the  only  way." 

Nelson  shook  his  hand  and  turned  away.  Billy  came 
up  to  have  his  say:  "Strongheart,  you're  saving  this 
game  by  keeping  Dick  in  it.  There  are  some  things 
a  fellow  can't  say,  old  man,  but  I  want  to  tell  you 
that — God  help  the  man  who  plays  opposite  me  next 
half!" 

He  turned  away  abruptly,  embarrassed  by  his  own 
display  of  feeling.  The  men  were  going  out.  The  last 
to  speak  to  Strongheart  was  Livingston,  his  brow 
wrinkled  with  his  unexpressed  wrath. 

"Is  there  anything  I  can  do,  old  chap?"  he  asked, 
his  voice  suggestive  of  despair. 

"Yes,"  replied  Strongheart  eagerly;  "play  football 
as  you  never  played  before,  Dick !  I  suppose  the  girl 
you  spoke  of  is  in  the  grand-stand?  Make  her  proud 
of  you!  Hit  the  line  low,  and  don't  get  penalized. 
Win  the  game,  Dick,  win!" 

Livingston  gave  the  Indian's  hand  a  hard  grip,  and 
hurried  out  after  the  others. 

Then  Strongheart,  stifling  the  storm  of  resentment 
within  him  until  its  only  manifestation  was  a  dull  pain 
at  his  heart,  went  to  a  window  and  watched  through 
all  the  long  forty-five  minutes  while  his  comrades 
fought  for  the  victory.  Long  it  seemed  impossible  of 
attainment.  Repeatedly  the  enemy  forced  Columbia 

310 


STRON  GHEART 

back;  more  than  once  Thorne  blundered  at  a  critical 
moment;  once  defeat  was  saved,  after  such  a  misplay, 
by  Nelson's  singular  ability  to  see  the  needs  on  th« 
field  and  his  alertness  in  meeting  them.  Once  there 
was  a  pause,  while  the  man  who  had  the  ill  luck  to  play 
opposite  to  Billy  Saunders  was  carried  off  the  field, 
and  a  substitute  put  in  his  place.  And  at  last,  just  in 
the  nick  of  time,  he  saw  Dick  make  a  brilliant  run,  saw 
the  opposing  fullback  tackle,  saw  big  Billy  butt  in,  and, 
laying  hold  of  both  Dick  and  the  enemy,  drag  them  and 
the  ball  across  the  line,  winning  the  game  by  one  touch- 
down. 

The  roaring  grand-stand  did  not  hear  it,  but  mingled 
with  the  hysterical  cries  that  split  the  sky  there  was  a 
shrill,  long-drawn  falsetto  warwhoop  from  the  Indian 
player,  who  had  forgotten  his  own  bitter  disgrace  in 
the  triumph  of  his  team. 


311 


CHAPTER   XXII 

RACE   PREJUDICE 

The  subsidence  of  the  excitement  attending  the  close 
of  the  game  gave  the  emotions  and  thoughts  that  had 
been  subconsciously  active  all  through  the  play  op- 
portunity to  manifest  themselves.  Strongheart's  re- 
sentment was  intense  against  Thorne.  But  for  him, 
the  men  doubtless  would  have  given  accord  to  Nelson's 
policy  of  temporary  suppression,  and  Strongheart's 
honor  would  not  have  been  questioned.  Thorne  also 
had  spoken  contemptuously  of  Strongheart's  race,  and, 
although  none  of  the  others  openly  approved  the  in- 
sult, it  rankled  and  was  the  direct,  final  incentive  to 
solving  the  problem  with  regard  to  Dorothy. 

Strongheart  was  not  conscious  of  the  precise  rela- 
tion of  cause  and  effect  in  this  matter.  Resentment 
had  been  subordinated  to  loyalty  to  the  team  during 
the  second  half;  love  had  been  utterly  out  of  mind 
from  the  time  the  game  began.  Now  his  mind  was, 
to  his  own  apprehension,  concentrated  on  the  mystery 
of  the  signals,  with  a  deep,  conscious  desire  to  throw 
back  the  insinuation  of  treachery  upon  his  accuser; 
but  beneath  it,  love  was  at  work,  demanding  that  the 
greatest  possible  proof  of  faith  in  him  should  be  given. 
It  was  not  enough  that  Nelson,  and  Livingston,  and 
Billy  Saunders  should  stand  by  him;  he  remembered 

312 


STRONGHEART 

gratefully  how  those  sturdy  young  felfows  shook  his 
hand,  how  they  looked  at  him,  how  they  cursed  under 
their  breath,  or  openly,  because  if  they  had  not  cursed 
they  must  have  wept.  But  it  was  not  enough,  although 
Strongheart  was  not  yet  conscious  of  any  deficiency 
other  than  the  confidence  of  the  team.  That  had  been 
shaken  by  Thome,  and  with  the  discovery  of  the  truth 
about  the  signals,  that  faith  would  be  recovered,  no 
matter  how  it  might  affect  the  accuser.  It  was  the 
very  manifestation  of  sympathy  and  faith  on  the  part 
of  three  loyal  friends  that  inflamed  the  desire  for  still 
further  manifestation  of  faith  and  sympathy;  and  so, 
while  he  bent  his  mental  energies  to  unraveling  the 
mystery  of  the  signals,  his  heart  was  nursing  its  de- 
mand, and  the  critical  moment  was  much  nearer  than 
Strongheart  dreamed. 

When  the  men  returned,  flushed  and  happy,  to  the 
dressing-room,  Strongheart  waited  only  to  congratu- 
late the  three  who  had  stood  by  him,  and  then  asked 
Billy  Saunders  to  walk  out  with  him.  The  others,  too 
exultant  to  give  much  thought  to  the  Indian  and  the 
signals,  nevertheless  averted  their  eyes  and  looked  un- 
comfortable when  he  passed  them.  The  room  was 
still  for  a  moment,  and  Nelson  said,  "Remember,  boys, 
we've  got  an  unpleasant  matter  to  discuss.  Everybody 
must  be  at  my  house,  tomorrow." 

"Yes,  that's  right,"  said  Billy,  turning  in  the  door- 
way, "and  let  me  chuck  in  my  reminder,  too.  Strong- 
heart  didn't  play  in  the  second  half  because  of  an  acci- 
dent. If  any  yap  forgets  that,  I'll  turn  Frank's  draw- 
ing-room into  a  slaughter  house." 

313 


STRONGHEART 

There  was  no  response,  for  the  situation  was  too 
serious  to  admit  of  jesting,  and  not  even  Thome  was 
quite  prepared  for  a  retort.  Thorne  least  of  all.  He 
was  absorbed  just  then  in  worry  over  his  finances,  for 
the  hard-won  victory  left  him  heavily  in  debt.  He 
had  borrowed  so  much  to  bet  on  the  game,  that  the 
thousands  that  Livingston  would  now  be  able  to  pay 
him  in  liquidation  of  his  I-O-Us  would  not  cover  half 
the  deficiency.  The  only  thing  left  to  Thorne  was 
hope  that  Livingston  might  still  be  disgraced  through 
connecting  him  with  the  dispatch  of  the  signals  to 
Farley,  and  if  that  could  be  accomplished,  he  would 
care  little  what  happened  to  Strongheart. 

"I  say,  Strongheart,"  said  Billy,  as  they  went  out 
of  doors,  "couldn't  you  limp  a  little  just  to  give 
color—" 

"No,  Billy,  I  can't,"  Strongheart  interposed.  "You 
can  make  such  explanation  as  suits  you  for  the  present, 
but  I  mean  to  reserve  myself  until  the  truth  is  known, 
whatever  it  is,  and  that's  what  you  and  I  must  discuss 
at  once.  We  start  on  this  sure  ground:  that  Dick 
Livingston  had  nothing  to  do  with  sending  those  sig- 
nals to  Farley." 

"Of  course  he  didn't.  It  was  the  girl.  Hang  it, 
old  man,"  and  Billy  grew  pathetic,  "don't  you  see 
how  I've  been  let  in  ?  I  thought  the  girl  was  an  angel, 
see?  I'd  'a'  mashed  my  own  head  if  even  a  peep  of  a 
thought  had  got  into  it  that  she  could  do  anything 
wrong.  But  she's  done  me  dirt,  don't  you  see?  She 
got  me  when  I  was  in  a  sentimental  mood  to  let  her 
have  the  signals,  and  then  she  sent  'em  to  Farley  be- 

314 


STRON GHEART 

cause  he's  the  fellow  who's  the  big  noise  with  her.  She 
just  played  me  so  that  she  could  help  my  rival,  and  I 
never  suspecting  that  she  was  even  acquainted  with 
Farley." 

Strongheart  listened  attentively.  Such  a  romantic 
plot  as  Billy's  grieved  brain  evolved  was  quite  as  rea- 
sonable as  that  a  footballer  should  betray  his  team. 
It  might  be,  then,  that  Billy  was  right. 

"I  dislike  to  seem  inquisitive,"  said  Strongheart, 
"but  if  you  and  I  are  to  work  together  to  clear  up 
this  thing,  we  must  have  all  the  facts  before  us.  Won't 
you  tell  me  who  the  girl  was  ?" 

Billy  hung  his  head.  "I'd  rather  have  all  this  dis- 
grace chucked  onto  me,"  he  muttered. 

"Come,"  said  Strongheart,  smiling,  and  laying  a 
hand  on  the  big  fellow's  shoulder,  "everybody  knows 
there's  only  one  girl  in  the  world  who  could  get  you 
in  such  a  sentimental  frame  of  mind.  Now,  Molly 
Liv— " 

"See  here!"  exclaimed  Billy,  hoarsely,  "even  you 
mustn't  say  a  word  against  her.  I  can't  stand  it." 

Strongheart  put  both  his  hands  on  Billy's  shoulders, 
swung  him  about,  and  for  a  moment  they  looked  into 
each  others'  eyes,  the  Indian  smiling,  and  at  length 
bursting  into  a  laugh. 

"Billy,  old  fellow,"  he  cried,  "it  isn't  possible  for 
Molly  to  play  traitor  to  the  team,  and  you  know  it. 
Why !  she's  more  daft  on  Columbia  than  any  of  us. 
Molly  sell  out  Columbia?  Nonsense!  She  probably 
doesn't  know  Farley  from  a  subway  guard.  There's 
some  other  explanation,  Billy." 

315 


STRONGHEART 

"Well/*  said  Billy,  "it  beats  me.  I  haven't  said 
she  was  the  one,  you  know — " 

"No,  we  won't  either  of  us  say  so.  You  gave  the 
signals  to  Molly.  I  say  so  much.  I  don't  accuse  her 
of  anything,  not  even  carelessness,  but  somehow  the 
signals  got  to  Farley.  Now  you  tell  me  every  detail — 
I  don't  mean  your  sentimental  scene,  but  just  how 
you  got  hold  of  the  signals  in  the  first  place." 

Billy  described  his  arrival  at  the  rooms  of  Nelson 
and  Livingston.  "Dick  yelled  that  the  signals  were 
in  his  desk,  top  drawer,  and  I  got  'em.  That's  all 
there  was  to  it,"  he  concluded. 

"Were  you  ilone  in  the  room  at  the  time?"  asked 
Strongheart. 

"Yes — hold  on,  though.  I'm  a  liar.  Thome  was 
there." 

"Oh!  Thome  was  there.    When  did  he  arrive?" 

"Don't  know.  He  was  there  when  I  got  there,  sit- 
ting on  the  desk,  if  I  remember  right." 

"Alone?" 

''Yes,  certainly.  That  is,  he  was  the  only  one  in 
the  room  when  I  went  in.  You  see,  the  other  fellows 
were  in  their  bedrooms — "  and  Billy  again  went  over 
the  details  of  the  episode. 

"All  right,"  said  Strongheart,  finally,  "you're  will- 
ing to  make  this  your  first  business,  aren't  you  ?" 

"Sure!    Until  I  can  think  that  Molly—" 

"Molly  is  the  angel  you  believed.  Be  sure  of  that. 
I'll  have  a  little  talk  with  her,  if  you  don't  mind.  Now, 
you  get  after  Dick,  and  find  out  all  you  can.  Ask 
him  how  many  lists  of  signals  he  wrote.  If  more 

316 


STRON GHEART 

than  one,  what  did  he  do  with  them.  Don't  on  any 
account  let  him  suspect  that  this  list  is  in  his  hand. 
As  soon  as  you've  got  all  the  information  that's  to  be 
had,  look  me  up." 

Long  before  the  great  game,  the  Nelsons  had  ar- 
ranged to  have  a  dance  at  their  house  on  the  evening 
of  the  day.  It  was  to  be  either  a  dance  of  jubilation, 
or  a  consolation  dance,  according  to  the  issue  of  the 
game,  but,  as  the  boys  put  it,  it  was  to  be  a  dance 
anyway,  and  absenteeism  was  unthinkable.  The  func- 
tion was  in  full  swing  when  Strongheart  arrived,  and 
it  chanced  that  soon  afterward  he  encountered  Doro- 
thy in  the  library. 

"I  am  so  glad  to  see  you,"  she  exclaimed.  "I  feared 
your  accident  might  prevent  you  from  dancing,  or 
even  coming  to  see  us." 

"I  do  not  think  I  will  attempt  to  dance,  Miss  Nel- 
son," he  responded  gravely,  "but  if  you  will  be  kind 
enough  to  give  me  a  dance  some  time  this  evening,  I 
should  like  to  ask  you  to  sit  it  out  with  me." 

"Gladly,"  said  she.  "I  am  not  engaged  for  the  next 
one.  Will  that  do?" 

"It  cannot  come  too  soon  for  me." 

There  were  others  in  the  library  at  the  moment,  but 
the  call  for  the  next  dance  sounded,  and  all  dispersed, 
leaving  Strongheart  and  Dorothy  alone.  They  sat  be- 
fore the  fireplace. 

"It's  pitifully  incongruous,"  said  Dorothy,  laughing 
lightly,  "but  this  reminds  me  of  the  evening  when  we 
sat  before  the  fire  by  the  lake  shore  in  the  wilderness 
and  listened  to  distant  music.  How  flat  and  artificial 

317 


STRONGHEART 

the  music  we  now  hear  sounds  by  contrast,  doesn't  it? 
But  I  suppose  it's  equally  appropriate  to  its  surround- 
ings, artificial,  all  of  them.  We  have  no  such  evenings 
here." 

"You  have  them,  but  you  do  not  use  them,"  said  he. 

"True.  I  find  I  can  do  so  only  in  memory.  You 
can  hardly  imagine  the  relief  it  is  to  me,  when  I  am 
tired  of  the  noise  and  rush  of  the  city,  to  think  of  the 
silent  forests,  the  vast,  comprehensive  peace  of  your 
land." 

"And  its  solitude,  its  loneliness?"  said  he. 

"Yes,"  doubtfully,  for  she  was  conscious  that  she 
did  not  wholly  grasp  his  subtle  meaning,  "but  solitude 
is  often  a  blessing.  It  is  said  that  there  is  no  such 
loneliness  as  that  of  the  individual  in  a  great  city,  but 
that  is  always  due  to  the  individual's  lack  of  harmony 
with  his  surroundings.  How  different  the  loneliness 
of  the  forest !  There  the  individual  is  at  fault  if  he  is 
unhappy,  for  great  Mother  Nature  waits  to  comfort 
him.  He  does  not  need  to  cry  to  her,  for  she  holds 
forth  her  consolation  without  the  asking;  she  folds 
her  arms  about  him,  and  he  must  be  dull  indeed,  if  he 
does  not  hear  her  whispering  benedictions." 

"And  that  is  my  land  ?"  said  he,  half  inquiringly. 

"So  it  seems  to  me,  Strongheart,  in  memory  of  my 
brief  visit  there." 

"Would  you  like  to  go  there  again  ?" 

His  voice  had  dropped  to  an  apprehensive  whisper, 
but  before  she  could  answer  his  question,  he  stood  up 
abruptly  and  spoke  in  his  natural  tone.  "Do  not  an- 
swer, Miss  Nelson."  said  he,  "for  I  would  not  seem 

318 


STRON  GHEART 

to  lead  you  to  an  admission  that  you  might  a  moment 
later  like  to  withdraw.  I  want  you  to  revisit  my  coun- 
try. I  dare  to  want  you  to  go  with  me — and  stay.  You 
have  the  spirit  of  our  forests.  The  voice  of  the  stream 
tells  the  same  story  to  you  as  to  me.  You  understand 
the  message  the  wind  bears  when  it  whips  the  spray 
from  the  lake.  Miss  Nelson,  you  understand  me,  aye, 
better  than  I  understood  myself.  You  do  not  know 
that  you  saved  me  once.  I  was  slipping  away  from 
my  ambition,  from  faithfulness  to  my  mission,  and 
your  voice  recalled  me  to  myself.  If  I  am  worthy  of 
any  regard,  I  owe  it  to  you.  But  I  am  not  now  speak- 
ing in  gratitude,  for  I  loved  you  long  before  I  had 
occasion  to  be  grateful.  From  the  moment  you  came 
into  my  life  I  knew  that  your  love  was  the  only 
thing  in  the  world  worth  having.  My  mission 
seems  small  compared  to  the  giant  love  you  have 
awakened." 

"You  love  me  ?"  said  Dorothy,  as  one  in  a  dream. 

"I  love  you  with  a  love  as  great  as  my  forest-clad 
mountains,  and  as  pure  as  the  air  about  them.  I  saw 
the  love  of  my  land  grow  upon  you,  and  I  have  dared 
dream  that  I  might  share  it." 

He  paused,  summoning  all  his  powers  of  self-repres- 
sion that  he  might  endure  the  denial  her  silence  seemed 
to  presage.  She  sat  motionless,  her  eyes  strained  upon 
the  glowing  coal;  it  seemed  as  if  she  had  ceased  to 
breathe. 

"This  has  been  in  my  mind  a  long  time,  Miss  Nel- 
son," said  he,  presently,  "but  perhaps  I  should  not 
have  spoken  yet,  or  at  all.  It  must  seem  abrupt  to  you 

319 


STRONGHEART 

who  have  not  thought  of  it,  and  I  shall  be  sorry  if  I 
have  intruded  on  your  pleasure — " 

"Strongheart,"  she  interrupted,  rising  and  looking 
at  him  in  that  straightforward  way  so  characteristic  of 
her,  and  so  baffling  to  those  who  could  not  meet  her 
with  equal  straightforwardness,  "Strongheart,  I  have 
thought  of  it,  and  I  have  dreaded  the  time  when  we 
must  speak  of  it." 

"Then  you  knew  that  I  loved  you?" 

"I  felt  it,  and  I  believed  that  some  time  you  would 
speak.  I  cannot  plead  surprise,  my  friend,  and  yet — 
can  you  forgive  me?  I  am  unable  to  answer  you." 

"Miss  Nelson !  Do  you  realize  what  you  say  ?  You 
have  known,  you  have  thought  of  it,  and  you  cannot 
say,  no?" 

She  shrank  from  him  a  little,  for  the  man's  logic 
and  impetuosity  together  were  disconcerting.  Perceiv- 
ing her  movement,  slight  though  it  was,  he  immedi- 
ately reassumed  his  statuesque  pose,  but  no  self-control 
could  dull  the  fire  of  hope  in  his  eyes. 

"I  do  not  say  no,  I  do  not  say  yes,"  she  responded 
hurriedly.  "Now  that  you  have  spoken  I  shall  be  able 
to  understand  my  own  feelings,  for  you  have  the  right 
to  a  plain,  unequivocal  answer,  and  I  have  no  right 
or  desire  to  keep  you  waiting.  But  I  must  have  a  little 
time,  Strongheart.  Don't,  O,  my  friend!  don't  build 
up  castles  of  hope  that  I  may  have  to  shatter !  Let  it 
be  as  if  you  had  not  spoken,  but  come  tomorrow 
and  I  will  give  you  my  answer.  Will  you,  Strong- 
heart?" 

"I  will  come  tomorrow,"  said  he,  and  she  hurried 
320 


STRONGHEART 

from  the  room  lest  his  appealing  eyes  should  overcome 
her  then  and  there. 

Strongheart  strode  the  length  of  the  library  and 
back  again.  The  impulse  was  on  him  to  go  out  and 
run  for  miles,  but  there  was  work  to  do.  It  was  not 
love  that  had  brought  him  to  this  house,  but  treachery, 
and  that  must  be  his  business  now  until  it  was  ex- 
posed. He  had  not  seen  Billy  since  they  parted  immedi- 
ately after  the  game,  and  he  began  to  wonder  what 
had  happened  to  the  big  fellow.  It  was  possible  that 
Billy  was  in  the  house  now,  and  Strongheart  was  about 
to  go  through  the  rooms  in  search  of  him,  when  Molly 
came  running  to  him. 

"Oh,  Strongheart,"  she  cried,  "wasn't  it  glorious? 
Didn't  the  boys  fight  like  heroes?  And  what  a  pity 
that  you  should  have  had  an  accident!  I  was  scared 
half  to  death  when  I  saw  you  were  out  of  the  second 
half.  Tell  me  all  about  it" 

"What,  little  one?"  asked  Strongheart,  smiling 
good-humoredly. 

"Why!  your  accident,  of  course!  Everybody  is 
just  dying  to  know  what  was  the  matter." 

"Tell  them  to  wait  a  little.  There's  something  else 
I  want  to  speak  of  now,  something  tremendously  im- 
portant and  serious,  Molly." 

She  stepped  back  and  looked  him  over  with  great 
solemnity.  "It  does  sound  as  if  he  were  going  to  pro- 
pose," said  she. 

"I'm  not,  Molly.  There's  a  good  fellow  in  my  way, 
and  I  know  I  should  have  no  chance  against  hirw.- 
Come,  let's  be  serious.  I'm  going  to  seem  might^jr 

321 


STRONGHEART 

impertinent  and  put  our  friendship  to, a  severe  test  in 
order  to  save  somebody  you  know  from  disgrace. ' 

Molly  was  all  attention,  for  she  was  actually  a  little 
frightened.  "Is  it  something  about — about  Dick  ?"  she 
gasped. 

"It  might  be  about  me,  little  one.  Here's  the  ques- 
tion: How  did  you  come  to  lose  the  list  of  signals 
Billy  Saunders  gave  you?" 

"Why!  I  didn't  lose  it,"  Molly  exclaimed.  Then 
she  blushed  furiously  and  demanded,  "How  did  you 
know  Billy  gave  me  a  list?" 

"As  a  matter  qf  honest  fact,  Molly,  I  guessed  it. 
Billy  didn't  tell  me,  and  nobody  knows  anything  about 
it.  If  you  didn't  lose  the  list,  what  became  of  it  ?  Re- 
member, it's  tremendously  important  to  somebody  that 
I  should  know.  How  did  the  list  get  out  of  your 
hands?" 

"You  frighten  me  with  your  talk  of  disgrace, 
Strongheart.  Am  I  to  blame?  Of  course  I  know  it 
was  a  silly  thing  to  do  to  ask  Billy  for  the  signals, 
but  I  couldn't  possibly  think  it  would  do  any  harm. 
They  haven't  been  out  of  my  hands  since  he  gave  them 
to  me.  I  had  a  pocket  made  for  the  list  in  my  dress. 
Here  it  is." 

She  handed  an  envelope  to  Strongheart,  who  hur- 
riedly open  it.  His  heart  leaped,  for  the  writing  was 
not  Livingston's. 

"Molly,"  said  he,  "will  you  let  me  keep  this?" 

"Will  it  save  somebody  from  disgrace?"  she  asked 
tremulously. 

"It  will,  little  one,  and  I'll  say  just  this  much 
322 


STRONGHEART 

that  Billy  Saunders  isn't  now  and  hasn't  been  in  any 
danger  of  disgrace." 

"Oh!"  and  again  the  blushes  overspread  her  face, 
Strongheart  could  not  repress  a  smile  as  he  perceived 
how  greatly  relieved  she  was.  "Good  for  Billy!"  he 
thought;  "he's  a  winner." 

"This  must  be  our  secret  for  awhile,"  he  said.  "No- 
body is  to  know  that  you  gave  the  list  to  Billy,  and  if 
you  want  to  do  me  a  real  favor  you  will  look  up  Billy 
and  tell  him  I  want  to  see  him." 

"Here,  Strongheart?" 

"Yes,  I'll  wait  here." 

Events  moved  rapidly  from  that  moment,  for  all  the 
parties  to  the  matters  pending  were  in  the  house, 
Molly  had  hardly  left  the  library  by  one  door  when 
Billy  strode  in  at  another. 

"Gee!"  said  he,  "I've  been  looking  for  you  for  an 
hour." 

"Well,"  asked  Strongheart,  "how  many  lists  did 
Dick  write?" 

"He  wrote  only  one  list,  and  that  was  the  one  I  got." 

"Good!    that  simplifies  matters." 

"Yes,  doesn't  it?"  Billy  returned  with  immense 
irony.  "It  puts  things  up  to  me  all  right.  I'm  in  the 
interesting  position  of  letting  my  list  get  into  Farley's 
hands.  Oh,  yes !  Matters  are  simplified,  all  right." 

"Look  here,  Billy,"  said  Strongheart,  handing  him 
Molly's  list,  "do  you  know  where  I  got  this  ?" 

"No.  It's  not  the  one  in  Dick's  writing  we  got  from 
Farley." 

"Of  course  not.  This  is  the  one  you  gave  to  Molly. 
323 


STRONGHEART 

I  got  it  from  her  just  now.  It  hasn't  left  her  hands 
since  you  gave  it  to  her." 

"Judas  Iscariot !"  gasped  Billy.  "I  haven't  dared  go 
near  her  since  I  thought  she — Gee!  what  a  multi- 
tudinous ass  I  have  been !  I  must  go  and  tell  her  so 
at  once,  or  something  equally  reassuring,  to  explain 
how  and  why  I've  been  dodging  her — " 

"Hold  on,  Billy,"  called  Strongheart.  "Molly  knows 
nothing  of  the  trouble.  She  can  wait,  and  this  busi- 
ness can't" 

"Right  you  are.    What's  the  next  move  ?" 

"I  want  you  to  wait  in  this  room  until  Thorne  comes 
in.  He's  sure  to  do  so  in  the  course  of  the  evening. 
When  he  comes  in,  you  must  send  a  telegram  to 
somebody.  You  cannot  write  it  yourself  because 
your  arm  is  lame.  So  you  get  Thorne  to  write  it 
for  you." 

"I  tumble,"  said  Billy.    "What's  the  message?" 

Strongheart  reflected  a  moment  and  then  said, 
"Your  message  must  be:  'Left  right  after  end  of 
game.  Awful  rush.  Back  at  half  past  ten.'  That'll 
do,  I  think.  Sign  it  in  any  way  you  like." 

"Address  fictitious?"  asked  Billy. 

"Just  as  you  like." 

Billy  repeated  the  words  two  or  three  times  over, 
and  when  he  was  sure  of  them,  "All  right,"  said  he, 
"but  it's  too  deep  for  yours  cordially." 

He  lit  a  cigarette  and  dropped  into  an  easy  chair  as 
if  patiently  resolved  for  a  tedious  wait ;  but  he  had 
hardly  settled  comfortably  when  Thorne  and  Ross,  an- 
other of  the  team,  came  in  for  a  smoke.  Thorne 

324 


STRONGHEARY 

ignored  Strongheart,  who  stood  by  the  fire,  and  ad- 
dressed himself  to  Billy,  saying,  "Well,  how  is  Lady 
Nicotine  after  a  ten  weeks'  absence?" 

"Right  up  to  the  limit,"  Billy  replied,  blowing  out  a 
great  cloud  of  smoke.  Then,  with  a  well-feigned  start 
of  surprise,  "By  Jove !  I  wanted  to  send  a  telegram, 
and  it's  almost  too  late.  Got  a  pencil,  Thorne  ?" 

"Yes,"  and  Thorne  handed  a  pencil  to  Billy,  who 
drew  up  to  the  table,  took  a  telegraph  blank  from  the 
rack  and  prepared  to  write. 

"Wow !"  he  exclaimed  after  a  pretense  at  an  effort, 
"I  can't  use  this  wing.  Just  write  it  for  me,  will  you, 
Thorne?" 

Thorne  complied  and,  at  Billy's  dictation,  addressed 
"W.  G.  Abbott,  Fifth  Avenue  Hotel,"  and  wrote  the 
message  that  Strongheart  had  invented.  He  signed 
it  "Billy,"  at  that  worthy's  request,  and  then  strolled 
to  the  fireplace  to  light  a  cigar,  Strongheart  making 
way  for  him. 

"I'll  send  the  message  for  you,  Billy,"  said  Strong- 
heart,  taking  the  paper  from  Billy's  hand  and  adding 
in  a  whisper,  "Get  Ross  away." 

Billy  was  in  a  maze  of  mystification,  but  he  had  the 
habit  of  obedience,  as  well  as  implicit  confidence  in 
Strongheart,  and  in  short  order  he  persuaded  Ross  to 
leave  the  room  with  him.  Thorne,  perceiving  that  he 
was  alone  with  Strongheart,  laid  down  his  cigar  pre- 
paratory to  leaving  also. 

"Finish  your  smoke,  Thorne,"  said  Strongheart, 
composedly.  "I  want  to  have  a  talk  with  you.  Isn't 
this  list  of  signals  in  your  writing?" 

325 


STRONGHEART 

Thorne  looked  at  the  list  and,  with  perfect  calmness 
answered,  "No." 

"Don't  lie  to  me,  Thorne,"  said  Strongheart.  "It 
will  not  help  you  now." 

The  plotter  maintained  his  composure  admirably. 
"You  seem  to  think  it's  in  my  writing,"  said  he.  "All 
right.  It's  a  matter  of  indifference  to  me  what  you 
think." 

"Perhaps,"  Strongheart  suggested,  "you  won't  be  so 
indifferent  when  I  give  these  two  papers  to  the  meet- 
ing tomorrow." 

"What  two.  papers  ?"  Thome  demanded  sharply. 

"This  list  of  signals,"  Strongheart  replied,  "and  this 
telegram  which  Billy  dictated  to  you  in  the  presence 
of  two  persons.  The  telegram  contains  the  words 
'end,'  'left,'  'right/  'rush/  'back/  and  'half.'  Those 
words  occur  also  in  the  list,  and  the  handwriting  is 
identical.  Both  papers  were  written  by  the  same  hand. 
Thorne,  you  sent  Dick's  list  to  Farley,  and  I  can 
prove  it." 

Thome's  control  of  himself  slipped  steadily  away 
during  this  recital  of  the  incriminating  facts.  He 
threw  his  cigar  down  suddenly  and  made  a  start  for 
Strongheart  as  if  he  would  assault  him.  Strongheart 
stood  perfectly  motionless,  and  Thorne  halted,  irreso- 
lute. 

"So,"  continued  Strongheart,  "I  tell  you  now  that 
tomorrow  afternoon  I  shall  show  the  team  that  you 
are  a  blackguard." 

"Look  here,"  cried  Thorne,  quivering  with  anger, 
"you're  interfering  too  much  in  my  affairs.  If  you 

326 


STRONGHEART 

give  me  away,  I'll  show  Frank  and  Dick  how  you  have 
betrayed  their  confidence." 

"In  what  way  ?"  asked  Strongheart,  undisturbed. 

"By  making  love  to  Frank's  sister,"  said  Thorne. 

Strongheart  frowned.  "We  will  not  use  a  lady's 
name  in  this  discussion,"  he  said. 

"Well,  whether  we  use  her  name  or  not,  you  know 
I  am  right.  I've  watched  you.'T 

"Well?" 

Thorne  pointed  to  the  papers  in  Strongheart's  hand. 
"You  have  the  evidence,"  said  he,  significantly.  "Pre- 
sent a  part  of  it  and  you  put  Dick  in  disgrace,  for  he 
will  have  no  way  of  meeting  it.  If  you  choose  to 
clear  him,  you  help  your  rival." 

"My  rival?  Dick?"  exclaimed  Strongheart  in  un- 
disguised surprise. 

"You  can't  make  me  believe  you  didn't  know  that," 
said  Thorne. 

Strongheart  stood  as  before,  perfectly  still,  but  his 
mind  took  rapid  retrospection  of  all  that  had  passed 
since  Dorothy  came  into  his  life.  In  the  light  of 
Thome's  words,  Dick's  friendly  companionship  with 
Dorothy  took  on  another  complexion.  Marvelous  that 
he  had  not  thought  of  it  before,  for  why  should  Dick 
not  love  her?  It  would  be  more  marvelous  if  he 
did  not. 

"If  Dick  is  the  man  she  loves,"  said  Strongheart, 
"she  will  choose  him." 

"But  if  you  are  the  man  she  loves,"  Thorne  snarled, 
"they  will  prevent  you  from  marrying  her." 

"Why?"  and  not  even  Thorne  could  doubt  the  sin- 


STRONGHEART 

cerity  of  the  question,  for  Strongheart  could  not  con- 
ceive the  possibility  that  his  friends  would  repudiate 
him. 

"Because  you  are  an  Indian,"  Thorne  answered, 
and  Strongheart  shrugged  his  shoulders  slightly  in 
token  of  his  incredulity.  Indeed,  the  answer  was,  to 
him,  too  absurd  for  comment.  His  indifference  mad- 
dened Thorne,  who  continued  hotly,  "If  those  boys 
knew  you'd  made  love  to  her  they'd  kick  you  out  of 
this  house." 

"Thome,"  said  Strongheart,  "you  lie !" 

It  was  not  Thome's  policy  to  resent  the  insult. 
"You  think  they  are  your  friends?"  he  persisted. 
"Stand  behind  the  curtain  in  the  window  there  and 
see  what  they  will  do  when  I  tell  them." 

Strongheart  advanced  slowly  upon  his  tormentor. 
"I  tell  you,  you  lie,"  said  he.  "You  lie,  and  you  are 
a  coward!" 

"It  is  you  who  are  afraid,"  Thorne  retorted  desper- 
ately, "for  you  know  in  your  heart  that  what  I  say  is 
true." 

"We  shall  see,"  and  Strongheart  strode  to  a  door, 
which  he  opened,  and  called,  "Frank !  Dick !" 

The  chums  came  in  together,  Nelson  asking,  "What 
is  it,  old  fellow?" 

"I  have  been  told,"  said  Strongheart,  "that  I  betray 
your  confidence  by  loving  your  sister.  I  have  loved  her 
since  the  first  time  I  saw  her,  here,  in  this  house.  If  she 
accepts  my  love,  I  ask  your  consent  to  our  mar — " 

"Good  God!"  gasped  Livingston,  "how  could  you 
think—" 


STRONGHEART 

"Wait,  Dick,"  said  Nelson,  laying  a  hand  on  his 
chum's  arm,  "this  is  my  affair." 

Nelson  may  have  feared  that  Livingston  would  so 
far  lose  control  of  himself  as  to  strike  Strongheart, 
for  he  was  no  longer  blind  to  Dick's  worship  of  Doro- 
thy; but  Livingston  really  was  helpless  with  amaze- 
ment and  sudden  weakness.  Love  and  friendship  were 
knocked  from  under  at  one  blow,  and,  for  the  moment, 
he  knew  not  what  to  grasp  for  support. 

"I  have  also  been  told,"  Strongheart  added  in  a 
tone  of  deep  sorrow,  "that  you  are  my  rival,  Dick. 
Believe  me,  I  did  not  know  it.  If  Dorothy  should  prefer 
you  to  me,  I  should  be  the  first  to  congratulate  you/' 

"That  isn't  the  point,"  said  Nelson,  sharply. 
"Whether  she  cares  for  Dick,  or  not,  you  cannot  speak 
of  love  to  her." 

"I  have  spoken,  Frank." 

"What!"  cried  Nelson,  and  it  seemed  as  if  he,  too, 
might  forget  himself. 

Strongheart  looked  at  him  in  pained  bewilderment. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  have  dared  to  make 
love  to  her?"  asked  Dick,  slowly. 

"Why  should  I  not?"  Strongheart  returned. 

"Why !  Strongheart,  old  chap,  you — you — "  Living- 
ston could  hardly  stammer  through  his  answer,  for 
he,  too,  was  profoundly  bewildered.  He  could  not 
conceive  the  fact  that  Strongheart  should  not  know. 
"You  are  an  Indian,"  he  concluded. 

"You  see,"  said  Thorne  as,  with  a  supercilidus 
shrug,  he  withdrew  to  the  end  of  the  room  where  he 
remained  to  see  the  scene  out. 

329 


STRONGHEART 

Livingston's  answer  left  Strong-heart  momentarily 
speechless.  His  consternation  was  so  evident,  his 
bearing  so  free  from  conscious  error,  that  Nelson's 
anger  was  measurably  soothed,  and  he  felt  a  grain  of 
commiseration  for  him. 

"Strongheart,"  said  he,  "you  are  one  of  the  finest 
men  I  know,  but  you  are  not  one  of  us." 

"Neither  are  Europeans,"  said  Strongheart,  "yet 
you  would  give  your  sister  to  one  of  them." 

"It  is  not  the  same  thing,"  was  Nelson's  reply. 

"No,"  Strongheart  quickly  admitted,  "it  is  not.  I 
have  a  greater  claim  than  the  European.  I  am  the 
American.  I  speak  your  tongue,  I  obey  your  laws.  I 
have  lived  with  you,  slept  with  you,  eaten  from  the 
same  dish — and  yet  you  say  I  am  not  one  of  you." 

Livingston  believed  he  knew  now  why  Dorothy  had 
not  yielded  to  his  suit :  Strongheart  had  stood  in  his 
way.  Strongheart,  his  friend !  Strongheart,  the  In- 
dian! The  knowledge  maddened  him.  His  convic- 
tions with  regard  to  the  mixture  of  races  were  as  sin- 
cere as  his  affections.  They  were  still  more  similar, 
for  they  were  spontaneous ;  he  never  gave  thought  to 
either.  And,  as  he  was  impulsive,  disappointed  love 
and  outraged  convictions  led  him  to  an  outburst  that 
transcended  his  reason. 

"You  don't  need  to  be  told  that  you  are  not  one  of 
us  in  race,"  said  he.  "We  trusted  you  with  our 
women,  and  when  you  spoke  your  love,  you  betrayed 
your  trust." 

"Wait,  Dick,  not  so  fast,"  warned  Nelson. 

"Oh,  let  him  speak !"  exclaimed  Strongheart.  "It  is 
330 


STRONGH EART 

time  we  understood  one  another.  You  called  me 
friend.  There  was  no  question  of  race.  I  have  the 
same  education  as  you,  the  same  customs,  the  same 
feelings.  You  yourself,  Dick,  assured  me  that  I  be- 
longed in  civilization." 

"Still  you  are  an  Indian,"  said  Livingston. 

Whichever  way  he  turned,  Strongheart  found  him- 
self beating  his  hands  against  the  same  wall. 

"You  do  well  to  remind  me  that  I  am  an  Indian," 
said  he,  with  rising  anger.  "You  have  taken  from  me 
the  land  of  my  fathers,  and  yet  when  I  live  by  your 
laws,  and  would  lead  my  people  in  your  ways,  you-  will 
not  call  me  brother.  I  am  Soangetaha,  son  of  a  chief. 
In  what  way  am  I  not  your  equal?" 

"I  tell  you  to  keep  away  from  my  sister,"  said 
Nelson. 

"I  will  not!"  Strongheart  retorted.  "I  will  try  to 
win  her  in  spite  of  you,  consent,  or  no  consent !" 

"Now  you  show  the  treachery  of  your  race!"  cried 
Livingston.  "You  make  love  to  our  women —  It 
was  you  who  betrayed  the  team !" 

Nelson,  perceiving  that  his  chum's  excitement  had 
passed  restraint,  and  being  as  unequal  to  this  peculiar 
emergency  as  he  had  been  in  the  case  of  the  team's 
unreasonable  hostility  to  Strongheart,  turned  his  back 
and,  with  clenched  fists,  walked  to  a  window  and 
looked  out  as  if  there  he  might  find  the  light  he 
needed. 

"Dick!  do  you  dare  to  say  that?"  Strongheart  de- 
manded. 

"Yes,  I  dare !  If  you  can  be  unfaithful  in  one  case, 
331 


STRONGHEART 

you  can  in  another.  That  was  your  father's  reasoning, 
if  you  remember.  You  don't  dare  to  show  me  those 
signals." 

Up  to  this  moment  Strongheart's  brow  had  not 
wholly  cleared  of  the  puzzled  frown  that  marked  the 
difficulty  of  comprehending  his  friends'  attitude.  Now 
it  vanished,  and  his  eyes  blazed. 

"You  force  me  to  fight.  Good!"  said  he,  "There 
are  the  signals  we  got  from  Farley." 

Nelson  turned  at  this  and  came  back  quickly  to  his 
chum's  side.  Livingston  took  the  paper  Strongheart 
held  toward  him,  and  both  looked  at  it. 

"My  God!  Frank,  the  writing's  mine!"  cried  Liv- 
ingston. 

"It  is  not  my  honor,"  said  Strongheart,  "but  yours 
that  is  in  danger.  Now  vindicate  it  yourself." 

"Now  you're  showing  what  you  are,"  said  Nelson, 
bitterly.  "I  was  a  fool  to  bring  you  into  my  house." 

"You  have  reminded  me  tonight  that  I  am  an  In- 
dian," Strongheart  retorted.  "Good!  An  Indian 
knows  how  to  revenge  himself." 

"Yes,"  said  Livingston,  "on  those  who  took  him 
into  their  homes." 

"I  was  an  Indian  when  you  took  me!  I  will  not 
sacrifice  my  life  to  your  prejudice;  I  will  take  my 
answer  from  her." 

"Strongheart,"  said  Nelson,  "this  is  my  house.  I 
forbid  you  seeing  my  sister." 

"You  have  not  that  right,"  Strongheart  retorted. 
"It  is  for  her  to  decide.  If  she  will  accept  my  love  it 
is  not  for  you  to  forbid  it." 


STRONGHEART 

"Have  you  no  sense  of  honor?"  Livingston  de- 
manded. 

Strongheart  flung  back  the  imputation,  "It  is  you 
who  are  false  to  me,  as  your  race  has  been  false  to 
mine.  You  have  robbed  us  of  all  we  had,  but  you 
shall  not  take  from  me  the  right  to  love!" 

"Understand  me,  Strongheart,"  said  Nelson,  "yon 
shall  not  speak  of  love  to  her." 

"Do  you  think  you  can  stop  me  ?  No !  I  will  speak 
now !" 

The  Indian  began  to  stride  across  the  room,  and 
Nelson  hastened  to  interpose  between  him  and  the 
door,  saying,  "If  you  dare  say  another  word  to  my 
sister" — when  the  door  opened  and  in  came  Dorothy. 
Instantly  both  men  halted,  but  Dorothy  must  have 
been  blind  if  she  had  not  perceived  the  signs  of 
trouble. 

"Why,  boys,"  she  asked,  "what  is  the  matter?" 

"Miss  Nelson,"  said  Strongheart,  quickly,  "when  I 
told  you  of  my  love,  you  asked  me  to  wait,  but  you  did 
not  deny  me." 

"Strongheart,  leave  my  house!"  cried  Nelson. 

"Oh,  shame,  Frank!"  said  Dorothy,  in  a  whisper, 
while  her  startled  eyes  leaped  from  one  face  to  another. 

"Dorothy,  you  don't  understand,"  faltered  Living- 
ston. 

"She  understands  your  injustice,"  said  Strongheart. 
"She  knows  it  was  you  who  brought  me  from  the 
forest  to  be  one  of  you.  You  introduced  me  to  the 
broader  life,  and  now  you  bid  me  step  back.  You 
tell  me  that  I  may  not  share  it,  but  must  stand  outside, 

333 


STRONGHEART 

because  I  am  an  Indian.  No !  I  will  not  do  it !  But," 
and  Strongheart  addressed  Dorothy,  directly,  subduing 
his  manner,  "Miss  Nelson,  I  owe  you  the  profoundest 
apology.  I  regret  that  I  should  have  been  the  cause 
of  making  you  a  party  to  a  painful  scene — to  a  quar- 
rel, Miss  Nelson.  I  was  beside  myself,  and  was  about 
to  demand  the  answer  you  bade  me  wait  for.  I  beg 
your  forgiveness.  I  will  come  tomorrow." 

He  withdrew  at  once.  Dorothy  started  impulsively 
after  him.  Livingston  pressed  his  clenched  fists 
against  his  lips,  and  Nelson  caught  his  sister  by  the 
arm. 

/ 

One  word  fluttered  from  her  trembling  lips. 

"Strongheart !" 

The  Indian  nad  closed  the  door  and  did  not  hear  it. 


334 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

EVERYWHERE   THE    SAME   WALL 

At  five  o'clock  the  next  afternoon  the  members  of 
the  football  team  were  assembled  at  Nelson's  house. 
Strongheart  was  the  last  to  arrive,  and  nobody  greeted 
him  as  he  entered  the  meeting  room,  which  was  the 
same,  the  library,  where  he  had  faced  the  crisis  on 
the  preceding  evening.  One  there  was  who  would 
have  spoken  cheerily  to  him  if  he  had  seen  the  Indian ; 
but  big  Billy  Saunders  was  engaged  in  an  animated 
"aside"  with  Livingston,  for  Molly  had  at  last  uttered 
an  unequivocal  "yes,"  and  Billy  was  doing  his  delirious 
utmost  to  extract  congratulations  from  her  brother, 
and  wondering  a  little  disconcertedly  why  they  were 
forthcoming  with  so  little  enthusiasm.  Poor  Dick! 
It  was  not  that  he  had  the  slightest  objection  to  Billy, 
but  that  his  own  heart  was  too  heavy  to  respond  readily 
to  another's  transports. 

Strongheart  took  a  place  somewhat  apart,  as  he  felt, 
from  the  rest,  and  while  the  men  were  exchanging 
reminiscences  of  the  game,  Thorne  sidled  down  to  him 
and  said,  "You  won't  give  me  away?  You  see  I  was 
right,  wasn't  I  ?" 

"Yes,  you  were  right,"  said  Strongheart,  and  turned 
aside.  His  features  were  set  in  that  sullen  expression, 

335 


STRONGHEART 

token  of  deep  resentment,  that  Livingston  had  often 
noticed  during  the  first  days  in  the  wilderness. 
Thome  suppressed  a  sigh  of  relief,  and  returned  to 
the  main  group. 

"Will  the  team  please  come  to  order,"  said  Nelson, 
rapping  his  knuckles  lightly  on  the  table.  "Boys,  this 
is  a  very  nasty  business,  and  the  sooner  it's  over,  the 
better.  You  all  know  what  happened  yesterday.  What 
we  want  to  find  out  today  is  the  name  of  the  man  who 
sent  those  signals  to  Farley." 

"Then,"  said  Thorne,  reassuming  the  real  leadership 
of  the  team,  "we  must  know  first  in  whose  handwrit- 
ing the  list  was." 

"The  Indian's,"  said  a  voice. 

"No  boys,"  said  Livingston,  promptly.  "Frank  has 
the  list,  and  the  writing's  mine." 

There  was  a  general  start,  and  several  exclamations 
of  surprise. 

"I've  tried  to  think  it  out,  boys,"  Livingston  con- 
tinued, "but  I  am  as  much  in  the  dark  as  you  are. 
The  list  is  mine,  and  I  can't  explain  how  it  came  into 
Farley's  hands." 

Thorne  stood  up,  that  his  words  might  be  the  more 
impressive  for  formal  utterance.  "In  a  matter  tike 
this,"  said  he,  with  becoming  gravity  and  a  tone  col- 
ored by  regret,  "personal  friendship  must  be  sacrificed 
to  justice.  If  Dick  has  no  explanation  to  offer,  there 
u  only  one  thing  for  us  to  do." 

"I  have  no  explanation,"  Livingson  repeated. 

The  men  who,  at  the  behest  of  a  self-appointed 
leader,  had  condemned  Strongheart  on  mere  ap- 

336 


STRONGHEART 

pearances,  and  who  trusted  Dick  Livingston  as  they 
trusted  themselves,  looked  in  breathless  anxiety 
toward  Thorne.  He  began,  addressing  Livingston, 
"Then  you'll  have  to — "  when  Strongheart  called 
his  name.  The  Indian's  tone  vibrated  with  dismal 
presage  to  the  plotter,  who  immediately  lost  his 
confident  poise  and  hurried  to  where  Strongheart 
stood. 

"For  God's  sake,  Strongheart,"  he  whispered,  "re- 
member that  you  have  him  in  your  power!  Have 
you  forgotten  what  he  said  yesterday?" 

"No,"  Strongheart  answered,  "but  I  had  almost 
forgotten  how  the  son  of  a  chief  should  act." 

Thorne  shrank  from  him  as  Strongheart  advanced 
to  the  head  of  the  table  where  Nelson  sat.  He  laid 
before  the  captain  the  telegram  that  Thorne  had 
written  at  Billy's  dictation.  "There,"  said  Strong- 
heart,  "is  the  proof  of  Dick's  innocence." 

Some  of  the  men  crowded  around  the  table  to 
look  at  the  paper,  and  Nelson  asked,  "What  does 
this  mean?" 

"It  means,"  Strongheart  replied,  "that  Thorne 
wrote  a  list  of  signals  which  he  found  a  way  to  sub- 
stitute for  the  list  Dick  wrote  for  Billy ;,  having  ac- 
complished the  exchange,  Thorne  sent  Dick's  list 
to  Farley.  Billy  got  the  list  Thorne  wrote.  This 
telegram  was  written  by  Thorne  last  evening.  A 
comparison  of  the  writings  will  prove  that  Thorne 
wrote  both — " 

"And  tried  to  throw  the  blame  on  Dick !"  shouted 
Billy. 

337 


STRONGHEART 

There  was  an  ominous  rustling  as  all  the  men 
turned  their  eyes  upon  the  plotter. 

"You  can  get  further  details  from  the  redskin," 
said  Thome,  starting  to  leave  the  room. 

The  men,  as  by  one  impulse,  massed  in  front  of 
the  door.  More  than  one  fist  was  raised  in  the  hope 
of  getting  in  a  blow. 

"Wait,  boys,"  called  Strongheart.  "Remember,  he 
can  never  show  his  face  in  college  again.  No  man 
will  take  his  hand.  Let  him  go." 

It  needed  but  a  commander  to  sway  the  small 
crowd.  With  some  reluctance,  but  without  hesita- 
tion, the  men  stood  away  from  the  door,  and  Thome 
passed  out  in  silence.  The  moment  he  was  gone 
there  was  a  rush  to  congratulate  Livingston.  Billy 
Saunders  hastened  to  Strongheart. 

"Old  man,  you're  a  brick!"  said  he,  and  then 
shouted  to  the  team  generally,  "Boys,  we  owe  an 
apology  to  the  man  who  saved  the  game  by  keeping 
Dick  in  it." 

Shamefacedly,  but  honestly,  the  men  surrounded 
Strongheart,  each  apologizing  in  his  own  way,  and 
all  shook  him  by  the  hand,  all  except  Nelson  and 
Livingston.  In  the  confusion  the  others  did  not 
notice  the  omission,  and  presently  Nelson  diverted 
their  interest  and  attention  to  another  subject  by 
asking  them  to  have  a  bite  to  eat  before  they  went, 
and  directing  them  to  an  adjoining  room  where  a 
table  was  laid  with  refreshments.  The  men  flocked 
willingly  thither,  and  Nelson  followed  them.  Liv- 
ingston was  left  alone  with  Strongheart. 

338 


STRON GH EART 

"Strongheart,"  said  Livingston,  his  voice  shaking 
Ixidly,  "I  thank  you  for  what  you've  just  done.  I  was 
a  cad  last  night.  I  ask  your  pardon  for  what  I 
said." 

"Do  you  take  back  all  you  said,  Dick?"  asked 
Strongheart. 

"No,  I  cannot.  It's  not  jealousy.  Something 
stronger  than  you  or  I  has  come  between  us.  You're 
the  finest  man  I  ever  met,  but  we  cannot  be  friends. 
Will  you  take  my  hand?" 

Strongheart  put  out  his  hand  very  slowly  and 
grasped  Dick's.  "Something  stronger  than  friend- 
ship," he  said  thoughtfully.  "Yes.  Good-bye, 
Dick." 

They  looked  into  each  other's  eyes  for  an  instant, 
and  then  Livingston  left  the  room.  Strongheart 
watched  him  go  in  anguish  of  soul. 

"And  I  thought  I  was  one  of  them!"  was  his 
silent  cry. 

He  turned  at  the  sound  of  an  opening  door  and 
saw  the  butler,  who  looked  in  to  say,  "There  is 
someone  here  asking  for  you,  sir.  He  says  he's  a 
messenger  from  your  people." 

"A  messenger!    Is  he  an  Indian?" 

"I  think  so,  sir." 

.  Filled  with  misgivings,  Strongheart  hesitated. 
Another  door  opened  and  he  saw  Dorothy.  "Let 
the  man  come  in  here,"  he  said,  and  advanced  to 
meet  her,  saying,  "I  am  here  for  my  answer,  Miss 
Nelson." 

She  looked  him  in  the  eyes,  in  her  familiar,  fear- 
339 


STRONGHEART 

less  way,  and  replied,  "Strongheart,  I  will  go  with 
you." 

His  heart  swelled  with  triumph,  and  yet  he  stood 
still.  Was  it  that  the  Indian  had  been  re-awakened 
by  the  episodes  of  the  past  twenty-four  hours  to  the 
traditional  caution  of  his  race?  or  was  it  that  the 
elemental  nobility  of  the  man  came  to  the  fore?  He 
said,  "There  must  be  no  mistake.  I  would  have 
you  look  well  into  your  heart  and  be  sure." 

"I  have  looked  well,  and  I  am  sure,"  said  Dor- 
othy. 

"Is  it  love,  or  pity?" 

"Strongheart!  it  is  love!" 

She  inclined  a  little  toward  him,  her  eyes  aglow 
with  the  light  of  conscious  love,  her  rnien  expres- 
sive of  unassailable  faith. 

"Then,"  he  cried,  his  voice  quivering  with  the  first 
release  to  long  subdued  yearning,  "I  can  forget 
everything  else!" 

Again  the  sound  of  an  opening  door.  They  turned 
to  see  the  butler  ushering  in  an  aged  Indian  who 
stood  hesitating  at  the  threshold,  blinking  as  if  he 
had  come  from  darkness  into  sudden  noon.  Dor- 
othy ran  to  him  with  outstretched  hand. 

"Bozho,  Black  Eagle!"  she  cried. 

Strongheart  advanced  more  slowly,  the  misgiv- 
ings of  the  earlier  moment  rising  to  cloud  his  joy. 
Black  Eagle  shook  hands  with  each  of  them,  and 
said,  "Bosho,  ogema;  bosho  equay;  nibo  Kiwetin 
Ogema."  ("Greeting,  Chief;  greeting,  lady;  Chief 
Kiwetin  is  dead.") 

340 


STRONGHEART 

Dorothy  felt  rather  than  saw  Strongheart  start, 
and  she  turned  to  him  inquiringly. 

"He  calls  me  Chief,"  said  Strongheart,  "and  tells 
jne  my  father  is  dead." 

For  the  moment,  filial  grief  dominated  his  emo- 
tions and  left  him  insensible  to  the  full  significance 
of  Black  Eagle's  greeting — "Chief."  Greater,  more 
impressive  was  that  irrevocable  call  that  had  sum- 
moned his  father  from  him,  forever. 

"Oh,  Strongheart!"  said  Dorothy,  and  her  eyes  filled 
with  tears.  She  would  have  said  and  done  more  to  ex- 
press her  sympathy,  but  Black  Eagle  spoke  again. 

"Tell  the  lady  to  go  away,"  he  said.  "I  wish  to 
gpeak  to  you  alone." 

"It  is  better  that  she  should  stay,"  Strongheart 
told  him.  "I  wish  it  so." 

"But  we  have  no  women  in  our  councils." 

"I  wish  it  so,  Black  Eagle.  You  will  soon  under- 
stand why.  She  does  not  know  a  word  you  say. 
You  can  speak  as  if  she  were  not  here." 

"Then,"  said  Black  Eagle,  reluctantly,  "I  have  to 
say  that  the  people  sent  me  to  you  to  tell  the  mes- 
sage I  have  given.  They  could  have  got  somebody 
to  write  it,  and  it  could  have  been  sent  by  mail,  but 
they  sent  me;  for  they  feared  that  you  might  have 
become  fond  of  some  white  woman,  and  that  you 
would  bring  her  with  you  without  thinking  that  our 
people  do  not  want  her." 

"Black  Eagle,"  Strongheart  interrupted,  "this 
woman  who  stands  before  you  loves  me,  and  I  love 
her.  I  shall  take  her  with  me." 

341 


STRO  N  GHEART 

"Is  there  no  woman  of  our  people — " 

"I  love  her,  Black  Eagle !" 

"Our  chief  should  marry  among  his  own  people. 
I  think  so.  I  have  talked  it  over  with  the  other  old 
men,  and  they  agree  with  me." 

"But  you  cannot  tell  the  chief  whom  he  may 
marry." 

"We  are  old  men,  and  we  can  advise  him.  We 
can  tell  him  what  the  people  want.  You  have  been 
away  from  us  a  great  deal  and  may  not  know  what 
we  want.  I  am  here  to  tell  you.  This  woman  is  not 
one  of  us.  She  is  a  white  woman,  and  should  stay 
among  the  whites." 

"But  she  will  help  us,"  urged  Strongheart. 

Black  Eagle  shook  his  head.  "No,"  he  said,  "it 
is  not  good.  She  is  white,  and  your  people  will  not 
take  her." 

"Then  they  are  not  my  people,"  exclaimed 
Strongheart.  "If  they  will  not  honor  the  woman  I 
love,  I  will  leave  them.  Go  back,  Black  Eagle,  and 
tell  them  to  choose  another  chief." 

The  aged  Indian  raised  one  open  hand  above  his 
head  in  token  of  the  solemnity  of  his  utterance : 
"Soangetaha,  you  may  leave  them,  but  they  will 
always  be  your  people.  They  sent  you  to  the  white 
man  to  learn  his  wisdom." 

"And  I  have  only  learned  to  love!"  Strongheart 
groaned,  with  a  shudder.  "I  cannot  give  up  that 
love !" 

"The  Winter  is  coming,"  said  Black  Eagle.  "Your 
people  are  poor.  They  need  you." 

342 


S  T  R  O  N  G  H  E  A  R  T 

"Then  let  them  take  her  who  will  help  them." 

"No!  She  is  white.  Her  people  have  made  us 
suffer." 

"Aye !  and  the  white  men  have  been  false  to  me, 
but  I  thought  my  own  people  would  be  true !" 

"We  are  true  to  you  when  we  say  no  to  your  love, 
Soangetaha.  The  children  of  our  chief  must  not  be 
halfbreeds.  Come  with  me,  and  come  alone.  We 
need  you.  We  are  poor,  but  we  paid  for  your  wis- 
dom. Jt  belongs  to  us !  Come !" 

"I  cannot  give  up  my  love!"  cried  Strongheart. 
He  dared  not  look  toward  Dorothy. 

"Soangetaha,"  said  Black  Eagle,  as  with  the  voice 
of  a  prophet,  "your  people  sacrificed  that  you  might 
attain  wisdom.  Was  it  for  your  pleasure?  Was  it 
that  you  might  do  with  it  according  to  the  whim  of 
your  fancy?  No,  Soangetaha!  They  have  lifted 
you  up  that  you  might  see  what  they  cannot  see, 
and  be  a  guide  for  them.  They  have  made  you 
what  you  are.  They  believed  you  to  be  a  man  of 
honor,  such  as  the  son  of  a  long  line  of  chiefs  should 
be.  You  are  an  Ojibway!  Are  you  now  going  to 
cast  off  your  people  in  their  hour  of  need?  It  is  our 
right  that  our  chief,  for  whom  we  have  sacrificed, 
should  be  devoted  to  us,  his  people,  and  not  to  a 
white  woman.  Choose,  Soangetaha !  It  is  your 
people  and  honor,  or  dishonor  and  the  woman !" 

"Enough !  Enough !"  groaned  Strongheart.  "I 
will  go  with  you.  Wait  for  me  here,"  and,  striding 
to  a  door,  he  threw  it  open.  Black  Eagle,  with  no 
word  or  look  of  satisfaction,  gravely  crossed  the 

343 


STRONGHEART 

threshold,  and  Strongheart  closed  the  door.  He 
stood  for  a  moment  with  his  hand  gripping  the 
knob,  and  at  last  turned  to  Dorothy,  his  features 
contorted  in  a  vain  effort  to  subdue  the  agony  that 
sought  expression  there. 

"Strongheart,"  she  said,  "the  talk  has  been  all 
about  me." 

"You  have  not  understood?"  he  queried,  startled. 

"Not  a  word,  but  it  was  not  necessary.  I  felt  it — 
hostility,  prejudice — was  it  not,  Strongheart?  It 
seemed  to  me  the  old  man  was  proclaiming  my 
death  warrant.  Was  it  not  so?" 

"Miss  Nelson,"  said  Strongheart,  in  such  agitation 
as  he  had  never  before  known,  "I  have  been  dream- 
ing, a  beautiful  dream,  all  sunshine  and  flowers;  and 
now  the  Winter  has  come,  and  there  will  be  no 
Spring !  Ah,  God  forgive  me  for  having  loved  you  ! 
for  it  must  have  been  the  strength  of  my  love  that 
made  you  love  me — " 

Thus  far  spoke  Strongheart,  farther  than  was 
necessary  to  proclaim  the  truth  to  Dorothy,  whose 
intuitions  had  been  confirmed  by  his  attitude  more 
than  by  his  words;  but  the  speech  was  necessary 
for  another  purpose;  for  Dorothy,  even  Dorothy, 
had  need  of  time  for  her  own  struggle.  She  had  but 
now  made  confession  that  love  was  become  the 
master  of  her  life,  and  confession  had  strengthened 
love's  demands.  It  was  a  brief  rebellion,  it  passed 
in  a  flash,  but  in  that  instant  the  woman  suffered 
the  bewildering  sorrow  of  finding  herself  abandoned, 
in  that  instant  she  was  tempted  to  put  forth  her  own 

344 


STRONGHEART 

powers  to  reverse  the  decree,  to  swerve  Strongheart 
from  his  life  work  and  make  him  her  own,  and  in 
the  same  instant  she  found  strength  to  choose  the 
nobler  course  and  nerve  herself  for  sacrifice.  So  it 
was  that  she  interrupted,  "No!  No!  it  was  yourself, 
and  not  your  love  that  won  me !  You  have  no  need 
to  ask  forgiveness.  That  strength,  that  nobility 
that  I  have  come  to  worship  will  sustain  you  in  the 
trial  that  is  now  thrust  upon  you.  Tell  me  just  what 
it  is  that  Black  Eagle  says.  I  will  be  brave,  Strong- 
heart,  brave  as  you  are." 

"He  has  persuaded  my  people  that  their  chiel 
must  not  take  a  white  woman  for  his  wife.  I  am  an 
Ojibway,  Miss  Nelson,  and  I  know  what  that 
means.  I  know  my  people.  The  prejudice  of  the 
whites  is  as  clay  to  adamant  compared  to  the  In- 
dian's when  it  is  once  aroused.  It  is  not  merely 
immovable,  it  is  unimpressionable.  Black  Eagle  re- 
minded me  that  my  people  sacrificed  to  send  me 
here  to  learn  wisdom,  as  he  calls  it,  for  their  benefit ; 
and  he  makes  it  a  point  of  honor  that  I  should  choose 
between  love  and  my  people." 

"He  did  not  need  to  raise  that  point,  Strong- 
heart,"  she  said  sadly  but  with  quiet  firmness. 
"There  is  no  choice." 

"I  tried  to  persuade  him  that  you  would  be  a  help 
to  the  people.  I  told  him  I  loved  you.  I  tried  to 
assert  the  authority  of  a  chief — " 

"And  in  the  name  of  your  people,  he  rejected 
me." 

Strongheart  bowed  his  head. 
345 


STRONGHEAR1 

Unseen  by  him,  Dorothy  swept  the  tears  from  her 
eyes.  "What  unsuspected  cruelty  lurks  in  every 
people !"  she  said  softly,  and  nature  threatened  once 
again  to  overwhelm  her  adherence  to  the  higher 
right. 

"The  law  of  races  is  founded  on  cruelty,"  said  he. 

"We  must  not  dwell  on  it,  Strongheart,"  she  re- 
sponded, again  triumphant  over  herself.  "You  must 
not  think  of  me.  I,  too,  had  dreamed,  and  my 
dream  was  beautiful.  I  thought  J  saw  myself  work- 
ing with  you  for  the  uplifting  of  your  people.  That 
cannot  be,  but  your  people  must  be  uplifted.  It  is 
your  work,  and  you  must  do  it  alone." 

He  looked  up  suddenly,  the  expression  of  an 
animal  at  bay  in  his  eyes.  "Alone !"  he  whispered, 
shuddering. 

"Alone,  Strongheart!  And  you  will!  It  is  the 
sacrifice  of  the  individual  for  the  mass.  You  will 
make  it  bravely,  steadfastly.  You  will  let  no  re- 
grets, no  dreaming  of  the  old  dreams  stand  between 
you  and  your  duty  to  your  people.  I  know  this, 
Strongheart,  my  friend,  for  it  is  in  your  character  to 
overcome  all  things.  You  will  overcome  sorrow, 
you  will  overcome  yourself,  you  will  in  future  as 
you  have  in  the  past,  justify  your  name — " 

"No  more !"  he  cried,  almost  roughly.  "I  can 
endure  no  more.  Let  me  go  while  I  have  the 
strength  to  go.  If  I  am  to  justify  your  faith  in  me, 
I  must  not  linger  near  you.  Good-bye,  Miss  Nelson.' 

He  turned  away  from  her,  his  hands  at  his  sides, 
clenched.  She  stifled  a  sob,  and  her  eyes  were  dim 

346 


STRONGHEART 

with  tears,  but  there  shone  from  them  through  the 
mist  the  light  of  triumph.  She  had  at  least  inspired 
him  with  the  necessary  courage  for  the  parting. 

"Good-bye,  Strongheart,"  she  said,  and  hastened 
swiftly  from  the  room. 

Not  until  the  door  had  closed  upon  her  did  he 
stir.  Then  he  whirled  about  quickly  and  looked 
wildly  at  the  spot  where  she  had  been,  at  the  door 
that  had  closed  upon  her.  One  step  he  took  in  that 
direction,  and  halted.  Slowly  he  raised  his  hands 
in  the  air  and  threw  back  his  head,  standing  for  a 
moment  as  he  had  stood  in  the  Columbia  Quadrangle 
at  midnight. 

"Great  Spirit  of  my  fathers,"  said  he,  "help !  help  ! 
For  I  am  in  the  midst  of  a  desert,  alone !" 


347 


SEQUEL 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 

THE  CHIEF 

Spring  was  far  advanced,  but  there  was  a  chill  in 
the  evening  air,  and  the  woman  had  set  a  fire  going 
in  the  closed  stove  that  partly  furnished  the  main 
room.  The  man  sat  before  it,  his  elbows  on  his 
knees,  his  head  in  his  hands.  Near  him  was  a  table 
spread  with  a  white  cloth  and  covered  with  plain 
dishes;  a  few  wooden  chairs  were  there;  a  moose 
skin  and  three  rag  mats  on  the  floor ;  bare  walls,  save 
for  a  hunting  rifle  and  game  bag  hanging  opposite 
the  outside  door. 

For  some  minutes  the  woman  came  and  went  be- 
tween the  main  room  and  the  kitchen,  reached  by  a 
door  at  the  right  as  one  entered  from  the  road.  Be- 
neath the  rifle  was  suspended  a  large  square  of  cloth 
that,  in  certain  parts  of  the  world,  would  have  been 
called  a  portiere,  for  it  concealed  the  entrance  to  a 
meagerly  furnished  bedroom,  a  small  chamber  with 
a  slanting  roof,  as  if  a  shed  had  been  tacked  to  the 
main  building  as  an  afterthought.  The  kitchen  was 
of  much  the  same  sort,  a  mere  sheltered  floor,  on 
which  were  stove  and  the  usual  outfit  for  washing 

348 


STRONGHEART 

and  cooking.  So,  there  was  an  exit  from  the  main 
room  on  each  of  three  sides;  one  to  the  road,  the 
others  to  smaller  structures  that  manifestly  were 
not  included  in  the  original  design  of  the  building, 
which,  indeed,  had  consisted  only  of  what  was  now 
the  main  room  with  its  four  walls.  But  there  was 
still  another  exit,  or, at  all  events  a  door,  on  the 
fourth  side  of  the  room.  Viewed  from  the  outside, 
it  led  to  a  chamber,  or  some  manner  of  apartment 
that  was  more  evidently  an  afterthought  than  the 
kitchen  and  bedroom,  for  it  was  comparatively  well 
built,  as  large  almost  as  the  main  room  itself,  and 
provided  with  wide  windows  through  which  nobody 
could  look,  for  the  green  shades  were  always 
drawn.  And  the  door  by  which  this  addition  to  the 
house  was  approached  could  hardly  be  called  an 
exit,  for  it  was  always  locked.  The  woman  never 
had  crossed  its  threshold.  Only  the  man  ever  went 
in  there ;  no  friend  ever  was  admitted  with  him,  and 
when  he  had  gone  in,  he  closed  and  locked  the  door. 

"Supper  is  ready,"  said  the  woman. 

The  man  did  not  stir. 

"Soangetaha,"  said  she,  after  a  moment,  putting 
her  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  making  a  show  of 
shaking  him,  "come !  wake  up !  Supper  is  ready." 

He  raised  his  head  at  that  and  looked  wearily  at 
her,  then  at  the  table. 

"I  was  not  asleep,"  said  he.  "I  do  not  care  to  eat 
tonight." 

Her  sombre  features  took  on  no  shadow  of 
anxiety;  her  eyes  lighted  with  no  manifestations  of 

319 


STRONGHEART 

surprise;  but  she  stood  as  if  hesitating  by  the  table 
for  a  moment  before  sitting  and  beginning  slowly 
to  help  herself  to  food.  Soangetaha  kept  his  gaze 
thoughtfully  upon  her,  but  she  was  merely  a  sight- 
ing point  for  his  vision,  which  flew  on  the  trajectory 
of  memory  to  a  target  set  far  beyond.  His  shoulders 
drooped  as  he  rested  his  hands  on  his  knees,  and 
weariness  lingered  on  his  face. 

"You  ought  to  eat,"  said  she,  in  a  tone  of  dull 
discontent.  "You  who  know  so  much  shouldn't  be 
told  that  you  can't  live  without  eating." 

A  ghost  of  a  smile,  a  fleeting  expression  of  hard- 
tried  patience,  announced  the  return  of  his  vision 
to  the  present.  "I  do  not  always  fast,"  said  he, 
gently.  "I  ate  a  hearty  breakfast  only  this  morning. 
An  Indian  does  not  need  to  pamper  himself  with 
three  meals  a  day.  Our  fathers  ate  only  when  they 
were  hungry,  and  often  they  could  not,  even  then, 
because  there  was  no  food." 

"Yes,"  said  she,  "but  the  trouble  with  you  is  that 
the  Indian's  food  no  longer  satisfies  you.  If  you 
could  sit  down  to  a  white  man's  table  now  you'd  eat 
readily  enough." 

"No,  no,  you  are  quite  mistaken,  Gezhikway. 
Food  is  food,  and  there  is  none  better  than  the 
Indian's.  I  think  you're  jealous.  You  want  me  to 
tell  you  every  day  what  a  fine  housekeeper  and  cook 
you  are." 

"I  want  you  to  eat,"  said  she,  "so  that  you  can 
be  well,  and  strong,  and  be  what  the  people  want 
you  to  be." 

350 


STRONGHEART 

"Yes,"  said  he,  as  if  struck  with  a  new  thought, 
or  with  an  old  one  in  a  new  guise.  And,  after  a 
pause,  "Yes,"  again.  Then  he  drew  his  chair  to  the 
table  and  fell  to  eating  with  more  energy  than  eag- 
erness. His  sister  went  mechanically  on  with  her 
meal,  betraying  no  sign  of  satisfaction  that  she  had 
won  her  point. 

"Of  course  it's  hard  for  you  to  understand  me," 
he  said  presently,  with  an  assumption  of  cheerful- 
ness that  faded  quickly  as  his  discourse  proceeded. 
"It  is  really  not  true  that  I  am  unhappy  because 
I  miss  the  white  man's  way  of  living.  I  am  no 
child,  Gezhikway,  to  cry  because  I  cannot  have  cake 
for  supper.  No !  I  am  a  man,  and  an  Ojibway,  and 
I  complain  of  nothing  that  cannot  be  helped.  It  is 
the  things  that  can  be  helped,  or  ought  to  be  helped 
that  disturb  me;  the  things  right  here,  Gezhikway, 
not  in  our  house,  for  I  could  not  ask  for  a  better 
kept  home,  or  better  food,  or  more  care  than  you 
give  to  the  necessary  work  here.  I  mean  the  ways 
of  the  people  generally.  I  see  what  they  need,  I 
know  what  they  ought  to  do,  and  I  cannot  make 
them  look  to  the  future.  They  listen  attentively, 
and  wag  their  heads,  and  debate  and  debate  among 
themselves,  and  do  nothing.  J,  cannot  stir  them. 
They  seem  to  expect  that,  because  I  have  been  edu- 
cated, I  can  revolutionize  their  circumstances  in  a 
day,  bring  something  ready-made  to  them,  when 
what  they  must  learn  is  that  any  change  in  their 
circumstances  worth  making  must  be  wrought  out 
by  themselves;  that  there  can  be  no  racial  im- 

351 


STRONCHBART 

provement  effected  by  the  services  alone  of  others 
than  themselves;  that  it  is  a  work  mainly  of 
the  present  generation  for  the  benefit  of  those  who 
are  to  come. 

"It  is  because  I  fail  in  my  mission,  Gezhikway, 
that  I  am  unhappy  and  often  shrink  from  the 
thought  of  wholesome  food.  I  have  not  failed  for 
any  lack  of  effort.  You  know  that.  I  have  worked 
hard,  early  and  late,  done,  or  tried  to  do,  everything 
that  needed  doing.  Two  years  and  a  half,  now,  my 
whole  life,  every  ounce  of  strength  I  have,  has  been 
given  to  my  people,  and  I  cannot  see  progress.  I 
have  hesitated  at  nothing.  Teaching  children  is 
irksome  to  me,  yet  I  built  a  school-house,  and 
brought  books  to  it,  and  maps,  and  summoned  the 
people  to  send  their  children  to  me.  You  know 
what  happened." 

"The  people  do  not  think  it  right  that  the  chief 
should  give  most  of  his  time  to  the  children,"  said 
Gezhikway,  unemotionally.  "They  demand  his  at- 
tention to  the  larger  affairs  that  concern  the  grown- 
up ones." 

"Exactly!"  he  cried,  exasperation  sharpening  his 
tone.  "They  will  not  look  to  the  future.  They 
elect  me  chief,  and  then  refuse  to  let  me  guide  them 
because  I  try  to  guide  them  in  a  way  they  are  not 
used  to.  They  nod  their  heads  and  say,  gayget,  yes 
indeed,  to  the  school,  and  the  first  day  the  whole 
population  comes,  doddering  old  men,  women  with 
nursing  babes,  heads  of  families  who  should  not 
have  left  the  fields,  grinning  young  bucks  who  would 

352 


STRONGHEART 

not  learn  their  letters  even  if  they  were  paid  for  it; 
and  they  crowd  the  little  room,  watch  my  efforts 
with  curiosity,  not  to  say  amusement,  and  finally 
leave  some  of  the  teachable  children  with  me  for 
that  day.  But  the  next,  half  the  children  are  present, 
and  after  that  a  few  come  or  not,  as  they  please. 
I  know  I  am  not  fitted  to  teach,  but  the  people 
should  have  let  me  try. 

"Then  the  government  assigns  a  teacher.  I  do 
everything  I  can  to  drive  the  children  to  him,  but, 
on  one  excuse  and  another,  most  of  them  are  kept 
away.  The  teacher  has  no  authority  to  compel  at- 
tendance, my  people  evade  my  authority,  and  the 
teacher,  try  as  he  will,  only  provokes  everybody, 
for  he  doesn't  understand  Indian  nature,  and  will 
not  learn  when  I  tell  him  his  errors  and  point  out  his 
tactlessness.  The  little  pay  he  gets  keeps  him  alive, 
and  so  he  clings  to  the  place  and  I  cannot  arouse  the 
government  to  make  a  change.  Why  should  there 
be  a  change?  asks  government.  You  have  the 
school,  we  send  the  teacher.  It's  up  to  you.  That 
was  what  the  agent  said  the  last  time  I  spoke  to  him 
on  the  matter,  and  he  couldn't  see  that  no  good  could 
come  of  the  school  unless  we  had  a  teacher  who 
could  win  the  old  people  by  sympathy  and  under- 
standing. 

"And,  as  with 'the  school,  so  with  everything  else. 
Today  I  have  been  again  trying  to  show  some  of 
die  men  that  it  would  be  better  to  put  larger  areas 
into  vegetables  that  could  be  sold  to  the  whites. 
I  tell  them  about  better  ways  of  cultivating, 

353 


STRONGHEART 

about  the  market  for  their  produce  that  can  be  hai 
for  a  year  or  two  of  patient  building.  But  no, 
what  has  been  is  right.  Harvest  enough  for  our 
needs  next  Winter.  What  more  do  we  want?  Jn 
the  terms  of  Indian  logic,  how  can  we  need  any  more 
than  we  need?  Impossible!  Therefore,  plant  no 
more  than  we  are  sure  we  can  eat.  Bah !" 

He  arose,  lit  his  pipe,  and  strode  back  and  forth 
while  Gezhikway  began  to  gather  up  the  dishes. 
She  understood  not  a  whit  of  his  speech  beyond  the 
external  facts  narrated,  and  he  knew  that  she  did 
not  understand,  but  what  was  he  to  do?  There  was 
no  one  to  whom  he  could  have  poured  forth  the 
surplus  of  his  discouragement  who  would  have  un- 
derstood any  better. 

"The  people  know  you  are  unhappy,  Soangetaha," 
said  she,  "and  they  are  sorry." 

"Yes,"  said  he,  and  his  tone  softened,  although 
there  was  a  tang  of  bitterness  in  it,  "I  believe  that. 
They  would  prefer  me  to  be  happy,  contented,  in- 
different to  the  future  as  they  are.  They  cannot 
understand  what  makes  me  unhappy." 

"They  think  you  would  be  happy  if  you  would  be 
one  of  them,"  said  she,  leaning  her  hands  on  the 
table,  and  for  once  taking  on  an  expression  of  ear- 
nestness. "They  would  have  you  marry — 

"Ugh !"  he  interrupted,  "the  old  story." 

"For  they  say,"  she  continued,  unheeding  the  in- 
terruption, "that  if  Soangetaha  had  faith  in  these 
things  he  would  have  done  for  the  future,  he  would 
provide  a  future  for  himself.  Soangetaha  has  no 

354 


STRON GHEART 

wife,  no  children.  If  he  believed  in  the  future  he 
talks  about  so  much,  he  would  have  a  family.  They 
say  it  is  because  secretly  you  believe  there  is  no 
hope  for  the  Indian  that  you  do  not  marry." 

He  stopped  abruptly  in  his  walk  and  looked  hard 
at  her.  Gezhikway  had  never  spoken  to  him  in  just 
this  way. 

"So  their  logic  has  driven  them  to  that  view!" 
he  exclaimed  softly.  "I  must  demonstrate  faith  in 
my  teaching  by  having  a  family.  Thus  would  I  tie 
myself  forever  to  them,  to  the  people.  They  fear 
I  will  desert  them !  Once  I  am  committed  to  them 
by  obligations  to  a  family,  they  will  follow  me ;  that 
is,  they  will  imitate  my  ways.  I  wonder  if  they 
are  not  right?" 

Gezhikway  had  begun  to  clear  away  the  dishes. 
Apparently  she  had  not  listened  to  him. 

"Where  did  you  hear  this?"  he  asked. 

"It  is  spoken  everywhere,"  she  replied.  "You 
know  they  have  wanted  you  to  marry." 

"Yes,  but  I  never  before  heard  it  put  in  just  this 
way." 

"They  have  been  waiting,  and  watching,  and 
thinking,  all  these  two  years  and  more.  They  did 
not  put  it  this  way  at  first  because  they  could  not 
think  it  then,  for  they  believed  you  would  some  day 
marry.  When  you  built  the  extra  room  to  your 
house,  they  thought  it  was  for  your  squaw.  They 
waited.  You  have  not  brought  her — " 

"No!  and  I'm  not  likely  to,"  he  interrupted  in 
sudden  repugnance  to  the  logic  of  his  tribe.  They 

355 


STRONGHEART 

might  be  trebly  right;  then  let  them  elect  another 
chief — and  at  this  alternative  his  heart  sank,  for 
such  outcome  meant  not  merely  the  failure  of  his  mis- 
sion in  life,  but  the  deliberate  desertion  of  his  cause. 

"I  know  what  is  the  matter,  Soangetaha,"  said 
Gezhikway,  pausing  again  in  her  work.  "You  are 
thinking  of  the  white  woman  who  visited  us  three 
years  ago  this  Summer." 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "I  am.  I  shall  always  think  of  her. 
Black  Eagle  and  the  other  old  men  know  that,  for 
I  have  told  them  so." 

"That  was  one  reason  why  they  did  not  tell  you 
at  first  that  you  must  have  a  family  if  you  would 
persuade  them  to  follow  your  ways.  They  were 
sorry  for  you.  They  thought  you  would  see  wis- 
dom after  a  time,  and  be  able  to  make  the  sacrifice 
for  the  people." 

"God  in  Heaven!"  cried  Strongheart,  bursting 
into  English.  "Is  it  not  enough  that  I  have  turned 
my  back  on  civilization,  cut  the  refinements  out  of 
my  life,  left  my  love  behind  me  and  never  sought 
to  keep  in  the  slightest  touch  with  her  lest  I  waver 
in  devotion  to  my  people?  Having  wounded  my 
soul  to  death,  must  I  now  trample  on  it,  insult  it 
by  the  desecration  of  the  holiest  sentiment  a  man 
can  cherish?  Love  her  and  deliberately  marry  an- 
other? No,  so  help  me  God!  My  people  have  no 
right  to  that  sacrifice  !" 

"I  want  to  tell  you  something,  Soangetaha,"  said 
Gezhikway,  after  he  had  finishd  the  speech  which, 
save  for  disconnected  words,  was  gibberish  to  her. 

356 


STRONGHEART 

"You  think  I  don't  understand  you,  and  that  the 
people  don't  understand.  Perhaps  that  is  so,  for 
we  are  not  educated.  But  we  are  sorry,  and  perhaps 
you  do  not  understand  that.  Qj  want  to  tell  you 
something." 

"Well,  tell  it,  Gezhikway." 

"Will  you  promise  not  to  be  angry,  and  not  to 
punish  anybody  for  it?" 

He  looked  at  her  doubtfully.  "Yes,"  he  said  after 
reflection,  "I  promise.  What  is  it?" 

"One  of  the  men  is  so  grieved  at  your  unhappi- 
ness,  and  so  sure  that  you  ought  to  have  a  family, 
that  he  has  been  singing  the  wabeno  prayers,  and 
making  medicine,  that  a  bride  may  be  found  who 
will  be  pleasing  to  you." 

Strongheart  frowned.  "That  was  Tom  Baume- 
gezhik,"  said  he,  sternly.  "I  have  told  him  that  he 
must  give  up  the  wabeno  mysteries.  They  are 
wrong — " 

"You  promised  not  to  be  angry,"  interrupted  Gez- 
hikway, frightened.  "You  said  you  would  not  pun- 
ish." ' 

"You  ought  not  to  have  me  make  such  a  promise." 

"1  would  not  have  told  you  without  it." 

"You  should  tell  me,  Gezhikway.  It  is  part  of  my 
business  as  Chief  to  stamp  out  the  bad  old  supersti- 
tions." 

"You  promised,  Soangetaha." 

"Well,  I  will  say  nothing.  Is  there  anything  else?" 

"No.  I  wanted  you  to  see  how  badly  the  people 
feel  for  you." 

357 


STRON GHEART 

"So  badly  that  they  resort  to  the  ancient  ways  of 
witchcraft  to  cure  me!  They  must  be  desperate, 
indeed." 

There  was  irony  in  his  tone  that  was  lost  on  her, 
and  that  presently  he  regretted;  for,  in  the  silent 
room  of  his  reflections,  where  no  controversy  en- 
tered to  disturb,  he  perceived  the  ingenuous  sin- 
cerity of  his  erring  tribesman's  act,  and  his  heart 
ached  in  sympathy,  as  for  a  helpless  child.  And 
again,  as  many  times  before,  he  told  himself  of  the 
infinite  patience  necessary  to  his  task.  Tom  Bau- 
megezhik  was  ostensibly  a  Christian.  His  voice  was 
loud  in  the  service  at  church  every  Sunday,  and 
yet,  when  it  came  to  matters  deeply  vital  to  him, 
it  was  the  ancient  way  he  sought  to  gain  relief.  Not 
in  one  generation,  thought  the  Chief,  sadly,  can  the 
people  be  raised  from  ignorance  and  superstition. 
There  must  be  tolerance  for  the  shortcomings  of  this 
generation — but,  for  his  mind  leaped  quickly  to  the 
remedy,  how  could  the  next  generation  be  improved 
if  the  present  could  not  be  induced  to  take  the  nec- 
essary steps,  and  lay  the  foundation  for  the  clearer 
view? 

Too  worn  to  give  his  emotions  outlet  in  a  stren- 
uous run  over  the  trails,  he  sat  smoking  for  hours 
after  Gezhikway  had  gone  to  bed  in  the  curtained 
chamber.  His  heart  was  indeed  doubly  sore,  for  not 
only  was  love  denied  it,  but  ambition  foresaw  persis- 
tent failure.  It  was  not  that  education  had  put  him 
utterly  out  of  sympathy  with  his  people,  but  that 
there  was  native  to  him  certain  haughtiness  that 

358 


STRONGH  EART 

no  conscious  effort  could  overcome.  People  of  an- 
other race  would  have  called  him  aristocratic.  The 
distrust  engendered  by  his  unreadiness  to  fall  into 
the  old  ways  after  his  first  journey  eastward  for  edu- 
cation, had  not  been  smoothed  away,  and  it  could 
not  be  by  his  own  unaided  efforts.  So  it  seemed  to 
him.  Perhaps,  when  he  was  an  old  man,  and  the 
present  aged  leaders  of  thought  in  the  tribe  had 
passed  away,  those  who  were  now  babes  might  be 
influenced  by  him.  It  was  a  long,  dismal,  disheart- 
ening prospect,  and  the  hours  of  silent  communion 
with  the  problem  never  made  it  any  easier. 

He  laid  aside  his  pipe  at  last,  and  went  to  the 
locked  door.  We  may  enter  with  him  for  a  brief, 
respectful  glance  into  the  room  unvisited  save  by 
himself. 

A  cabinet  filled  with  books  stands  in  a  corner ; 
between  two  windows,  a  writing  desk;  a  table  with 
books  and  lamp  in  the  middle ;  a  swivel  armchair ; 
two  other  chairs  such  as  might  be  found  in  any  stu- 
dent's room;  a  bed  concealed  partly  by  a  curtain, 
partly  by  a  collapsible  screen ;  a  rug  not  of  Indian 
make  on  the  floor;  hanging  from  hooks  and  tacked 
to  the  walls,  a  multitude  of  articles,  among  them  a 
football,  a  jersey  with  a  great  C  embroidered  on  it, 
football  pads,  a  pair  of  boxing  gloves,  a  medal  for 
victory  in  a  long-distance  run,  photographs  of  a 
football  team,  individual  photographs  of  student 
friends,  a  whole  frame  of  amateur  snap-shots  taken 
by  Nelson,  in  every  one  of  which  Dorothy  figures; 
the  whole  chamber,  in  short,  a  reproduction,  as 

o59 


STRONGHEART 

nearly  as  could  be,  of  his  modest  quarters  at  Colum- 
bia. On  the  table,  the  most  conspicuous  single  ob- 
ject is  a  standard  holding  a  large  photograph,  an 
enlarged  copy  of  one  of  Nelson's  most  successful 
pictures  of  his  sister;  it  shows  her  as  she  stood  one 
morning  by  the  lake-side  just  about  to  step  into  a 
canoe,  a  paddle  in  her  hand,  the  light  of  wholesome 
enjoyment  in  her  eyes.  When  Strongheart  has 
lighted  the  lamp,  it  is  this  to  which  he  turns;  he 
takes  it  from  the  table  and  holds  it  before  him — 

Our  time  is  up.  We  must  withdraw  as  silently  as 
may  be  through  the  locked  door,  for  Strongheart  is 
praying. 


CHAPTER   XXV 

TRIBAL    CONCESSIONS 

One  evening,  just  after  Strongheart  had  finished 
supper,  and  while  the  sun  was  still  high,  Black 
Eagle  and  a  dozen  or  more  old  men  assembled  at 
the  Chief's  house.  They  came  uninvited,  but 
Strongheart  gravely  bade  them  welcome,  and,  as 
his  chairs  were  insufficient  to  seat  them  all,  none 
were  used,  the  Chief  sitting  on  the  floor,  in  the 
ancient  way,  with  the  others.  Gezhikway  made 
tea,  which  she  gave  to  the  visitors  in  tin  cups,  and 
Strongheart's  tobacco  pouch  was  passed  from  one 
to  another.  Every  man  lit  his  pipe,  and  presently 
a  thin  cloud  of  fragrant  smoke  began  to  drift  out  of 
the  open  door,  token  to  anyone  who  might  observe 
that  a  council  was  in  session.  Such  Strongheart 
knew  it  to  be  the  moment  his  visitors  arrived,  but 
what  was  the  occasion  he  knew  not  nor  guessed 
until  they  told  him.  Black  Eagle,  as  was  generally 
the  case,  was  the  spokesman,  but  he  said  nothing  of 
a  formal  nature  until  the  refreshments  had  been 
served,  and  Gezhikway  had  gone  to  the  kitchen. 

"Soangetaha,"  said  he,  then,  "you  are  our  Chief. 
Your  father,  Kiwetin,  was  chief  before  you,  and 
Kiwetin's  father  was  chief  before  him.  [It  goes* 

361 


STRONGHEART 

further  back  than  that,  long  beyond  the  memory  of 
the  oldest  among  us.  For  a  long  time,  then,  the 
chieftainship  of  this  tribe  of  Ojibways  has  been  in 
one  family,  its  honor  and  its  obligation.  The  white 
man's  government,  to  which  we  are  now  subject, 
tells  us  that  we  must  vote  for  our  chiefs  once  in  so 
many  years." 

"Black  Eagle,  my  friend,"  said  Strongheart,  "we 
wish  to  understand  each  other.  If,  when  my  years 
are  up,  the  people  wish  another  to  be  chief,  I  shall 
not  make  any  claims — " 

The  aged  spokesman  raised  his  hand  in  dignified 
but  gentle  rebuke  of  the  interruption. 

"That  is  not  it,  Soangetaha,"  said  he.  "We  shall 
understand  each  other.  I  was  about  to  say  that  we 
are  glad  to  vote,  because  in  that  way  we  can  say  to 
the  government,  and  to  you,  and  to  everybody,  that 
we  wish  the  chieftainship  to  stay  where  it  has  been 
longer  than  the  memory  of  man,  for  your  fathers 
served  the  people  well,  Soangetaha.  So  then,  we 
chose  you,  and  we  expect  to  choose  you  again,  and 
yet  again,  for  you  are  young  and  strong,  and  all  the 
signs  of  your  childhood  were  for  a  long  life.  We 
wish  to  be  guided  by  you  as  a  tribe  should  be 
guided  by  its  chief,  and  we  believe  you  have  still 
much  to  tell  us  for  our  good.  You  have  told  us 
many  times,  Soangetaha,  that  we  must  learn  to  look 
to  the  future.  That  was  not  so  necessary  in  the 
time  of  our  fathers,  but  so  many  changes  have  come 
with  the  coming  of  the  whites,  that  looking  to  the 
future  appears  to  be  the  duty  of  the  Indian.  We 

362 


STRON  GHEART 

have  thought  much  about  this,  and  have  discussed 
it  from  all  sides  in  our  gatherings  in  our  homes,  or 
in  the  fields,  or  wherever  we  might  meet.  We  think 
that  you  have  given  us  good  advice,  and  we  have 
said  to  one  another,  yes,  we  must  look  to  the  future. 
And  so  we  do.  We  look  ahead  and  we  ask,  Where 
is  he  who  will  be  chief  after  Soangetaha  has  gone 
to  his  fathers?  We  reflect  that  it  takes  many  years 
for  a  boy  to  grow  to  manhood,  and  we  are  disturbed 
because  the  Chief's  successor  is  not  yet  born." 

The  Chief's  heart  sank,  though  his  face  betrayed 
no  sign  of  dismay  and  fresh  discouragement.  So 
this  was  the  purpose  of  the  council:  to  renew  per- 
suasion that  he  take  a  wife !  For  more  than  two 
years  he  had  preached  foresightedness ;  and  the 
first  convincing  evidence  that  his  teaching  had  taken 
root  was  this  application  of  the  doctrine  to  himself ! 
Time  and  again,  in  council  and  privately,  the  old 
men  had  signified  their  desire  that  he  take  a  wife, 
but  never  before  had  this  argument  been  used.  It 
had  taken  two  years  for  them  to  get  so  far  as  this 
toward  his  way  of  thinking. 

It  would  have  done  unspeakable  violence  to  In- 
dian manners  for  Strongheart,  having  come  to  a 
perception  of  the  council's  purpose,  and  having  but 
one  unchangeable  answer  to  the  proposition,  to  end 
the  debate  then  and  there.  It  must  run  its  slow 
course  in  regular  order,  even  if  the  night  were  con- 
sumed in  useless  talk,  and  the  Chief  silently  resigned 
himself  to  the  infliction  as  a  part  of  the  burden  of 
office;  but  he  found  that  Black  Eagle's  exhibition  of 

363 


STRONGHEART 

Indian  logic  was  really  no  more  than  a  skilful  intro- 
duction to  a  view  of  the  subject  which  was  more 
striking  still. 

"We  have  told  you  before,"  Black  Eagle  con- 
tinued, "how  we  should  be  pleased  if  you  would  take 
a  wife  from  among  your  own  people.  It  is  the  cus- 
tom of  the  tribes,  but  there  seems  to  be  nothing 
more  to  say  about  it,  for  the  idea  does  not  please 
you,  and  we  are  sorry.  Let  it  pass.  We  come  to 
tell  you  something  different.  You  know  that  John 
Longfeather  has  just  returned  from  a  journey  far 
westward?" 

Strongheart  knew  that  Longfeather  had  been 
back  more  than  a  month,  but  he  was  not  disposed  to 
quibble,  so  he  nodded  and  said,  "I  know  it,  Black 
Eagle,"  and  the  spokesman  proceeded : 

"Longfeather  visited  his  cousins,  who  live  on  the 
Moose  River  reservation.  He  had  not  seen  them  for 
years,  and  he  has  had  much  to  tell  us  how  they  are  pros- 
pering, and  we  have  been  interested,  for  many  of  us 
are  acquainted  with  his  cousins.  Among  the  things 
Longfeather  has  told  us  is  the  story  of  the  white 
squaw  who  lives  on  the  Moose  River  reservation. 
She  is  a  young  woman,  he  says,  and  fair  to  look 
upon;  but,  better  than  that,  she  is  one  whose  heart 
goes  out  to  the  Indians,  and  to  whom  the  Indians 
have  given  their  trust  and  affection.  There  is  no  sus- 
picion about  her  that  she  is  seeking  some  selfish  end 
that  she  hides  from  the  people.  She  has  learned 
their  language — it  is  not  such  pure  Ojibway  as  we 
speak,  Soangetaha,  but  it  is  Ojibway,  Longfeather 

364 


STRONGHEART 

says,  easy  to  understand  and  that  sounds  sweet 
upon  her  tongue.  She  teaches  all  who  wish  to  come 
to  her,  whether  they  be  children  or  aged  men  and 
women.  There  is  nothing  she  does  not  teach ;  books, 
yes,  but  new  and  better  ways  of  sewing,  and  mak- 
ing food,  and  taking  care  of  the  house.  And  if  any 
are  sick  on  the  reservation,  it  is  she  who  goes  to  the 
bedside  and  stays  the  night  through,  making  medi- 
cine that  does  good,  and  cures  most  of  the  time;  and 
when  it  does  not  cure,  the  people  know  that  the 
case  was  hopeless.  Longfeather  says  it  is  as  if  the 
woman  were  herself  an  Ojibway,  but  with  all  the 
knowledge  of  the  whites;  such  a  woman,  Soange- 
taha,  as  you  are  a  man.  We  have  thought  of  all 
this,  and  talked  it  over,  and  what  we  have  come  to 
tell  you  is  this:  that  if  you  are  fully  decided  that 
you  do  not  want  a  wife  from  among  your  own  peo- 
ple, we  should  be  glad  if  you  would  bring  this  wo- 
man Longfeather  tells  us  of  to  your  house  and  make 
her  your  squaw." 

The  Chief  had  foreseen  the  climax,  but  no  muscle 
of  his  face  moved.  He  kept  his  eyes  fixed  gravely 
on  the  speaker,  but  in  his  heart  he  knew  not 
whether  to  laugh  or  to  weep.  What  was  there  to 
say  to  such  simplicity?  How  assume  an  attitude 
that  should  be  comprehensible  and  satisfactory? 

"What  you  tell  me,  Black  Eagle,"  said  Strong- 
heart,  "is  very  interesting.  I  have  believed  that 
such  whites  could  be  found  to  help  the  Indians,  if 
only  we  knew  where  to  seek  for  them.  You  do  not 
forget  that  there  was  a  white  woman  whom  I 

365 


STRONGHEART 

wished  to  bring  here,  and  that  you  opposed  me?" 
"We  do  not  forget  it,"  Black  Eagle  replied.  "We 
have  grieved  for  the  sorrow  of  our  Chief,  but  in 
those  days  we  believed  you  would  forget  the  white 
woman  and  become  one  of  us  in  every  way.  We 
did  not  want  a  stranger  among  us.  Now  it  is  a 
little  different.  We  would  rather  our  Chief  took  an 
Indian  wife,  but  if  he  will  not,  we  would  welcome 
the  white  squaw  from  the  Moose  River  reservation. 
Strongheart  was  too  steeped  in  civilization  to 
undertake  a  futile  argument.  "Of  what  use,"  he 
groaned  inwardly,  "to  point  out  the  ludicrous  char- 
acter of  their  concession  ?  What  end  will  be  served 
by  harping  on  their  rejection  of  Dorothy?"  And 
his  heart  ached,  for  he  believed  that  if  he  could  have 
brought  Dorothy  with  him,  she  would  have  become 
for  his  tribe  just  what  the  white  squaw  at  Moose 
River  seemed  to  be  for  the  tribe  there.  That  is,  and 
he  was  still  Indian  enough  to  recognize  this  im- 
portant point,  if  the  people  would  have  received  her 
willingly  at  first.  He  knew  only  too  well  that,  had 
he  insisted  on  bringing  Dorothy  with  him,  the 
people,  prejudiced  by  Black  Eagle  and  the  old  men 
who  habitually  sided  with  him,  would  have  made 
life  intolerable  for  her.  There  is  no  human  effort 
which  the  Indian  cannot  subvert  if  his  mind  be 
turned  against  it,  and  Strongheart  knew  it.  Dor- 
othy, welcomed,  would  doubtless  have  been  the 
helper  and  teacher  the  tribe  needed ;  she  would  have 
been  the  essential  complement  of  Strongheart  in 
his  relations  to  his  people.  He  had  long  been  con- 

366 


STRONGHEART 

scious  of  the  causes  of  his  failure  as  well  as  of  the 
failure  itself,  and,  from  the  narrative  brought  by 
Longfeather,  it  appeared  that  the  white  squaw  at 
Moose  River  succeeded  in  just  those  points  wherein 
he  was  weakest. 

"What  is  the  white  squaw's  name?"  Strongheart 
asked. 

"They  call  her  Minodaeikway,"  said  Black  Eagle 
(Lady  of  the  Good  Heart). 

"Yes,  but  what  is  her  white  name?" 

Longfeather  was  in  the  council,  and  Black  Eagle 
turned  to  him.  "I  never  heard  it,"  said  he. 

"ilt  might  be  possible,"  suggested  the  Chief,  "to 
get  this  lady  to  take  the  school  here,  or,  if  the  gov- 
ernment would  not  appoint  her,  we  might  hire  her 
and  build  a  new  school.  Then  those  who  wanted  to 
send  their  children  to  the  government  school  could 
do  so,  and  the  others  could  send  to  the  lady." 

"It  is  not  that,"  Black  Eagle  responded ;  "we  think 
the  Chief  should  marry." 

"But  you  know,  Black  Eagle,  that  among  the 
Ojibways,  as  among  the  whites,  it  is  the  man  who 
asks  and  the  woman  who  decides.  The  white 
squaw  at  Moose  River  might  not  want  me,  a 
stranger  whom  she  never  heard  of.  Think  of  ask- 
ing her  to  go  with  a  husband  to  a  strange  people !" 

"It  would  be  strange  if  Chief  Soangetaha  were 
denied,"  said  the  old  man,  simply,  "and  Soangetaha 
will  not  be  denied  if  he  does  not  ask." 

"True,"  said  the  Chief.  "My  friends,  I  will  think 
of  it." 

367 


STRONGHEART 

Thus,  true  to  Indian  ways,  did  Strongheart  end 
the  council  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  members,  by 
temporizing.  He  was  not  committed  to  any  course ; 
it  was  most  unreasonable  to  suppose  that  he  would 
be  convinced  at  a  first  discussion ;  the  old  men  them- 
selves had  thought  and  talked  of  the  matter  for  a 
month  before  proposing  it.  He  would  think  it  over. 
Good !  and  the  dusky  advisers  of  the  Chief  puffed 
their  respective  ways  homeward. 

Next  day  came  Winterton  to  the  reservation.  He 
went  to  the  Chief's  house,  and  Strongheart  found 
him  there  when  he  went  home  for  dinner.  They 
ate  together,  smoked  together,  and  talked  of  various 
matters  connected  with  the  reservation. 

"You  been  makin'  a  lot  of  improvements,  Soan- 
getaha,"  said  Winterton,  after  a  time. 

"Yes?  how?"  responded  the  Chief,  doubtfully. 

"Why,  the  gardens  look  better,  more  businesslike. 
And  that's  a  good  idea  of  straightenin'  the  trail  to 
the  turnpike  and  makin'  it  more  like  a  wagon  road. 
And  there's  something  about  the  houses  here  and 
there  that  looks  as  if  somebody'd  come  along  with 
an  eye  to  slickin'  things  up." 

"You  notice  such  things?"  exclaimed  Strong- 
heart.  "Now  that's  a  bit  encouraging,  Winterton. 
I  couldn't  see  that  I'd  made  any  impression  with  my 
ideas." 

"Oh,  you  have.  'Taint  all  of  'em  will  do  what  you 
want,  and  none  of  'em  will  do  all  you  want — yet. 
But  the  time  will  come.  You've  only  got  to  keep  at 
it.  You  can't  learn  an  old  fellow  much,  red  or 

368 


STRONGHEART 

white.     It's  the  young,  Soangetaha.     They'll  learn." 

"Yes,"  and  the  Chief  subsided  again  into  his  cus- 
tomary melancholy.  The  young!  How  could  he 
bend  them  in  the  right  direction  if  the  old  resisted 
him  with  their  adamantine,  reason-defying  stolid- 
ity? 

"I  got  a  letter  from  Dick  Livingston  day  before 
yesterday,"  said  Winterton. 

"Ah?     How  is  he?" 

"I  dunno.    He  didn't  say." 

They  communed  silently  with  their  respective 
pipes  for  at  least  a  minute.  Then  said  Winterton, 
"You  hain't  kep'  track  of  Dick  very  close  since  you 
left  school,  have  you  ?" 

"No,"  Strongheart  replied,  "I  have  not.  What 
made  you  think  so?" 

"Because  he  asked  me  so  much  about  you.  'Pears 
he  doesn't  know  for  sure  where  you  are,  or  even 
that  you're  alive." 

"Is  he  coming  up  this  Summer?" 

"Wai,  seems  doubtful  like.  His  letter  wants  to 
know  if  I'm  engaged,  and  if  I'm  not,  he  takes  me  for 
the  whole  Summer.  But  he  don't  say  he's  comin'. 
Just  says  to  me,  says  the  letter,  don't  take  any  other 
business.  If  I  decide  not  to  come,  I'll  pay  for  your 
whole  time  just  the  same.  Funny !  Like  Dick,  ain't 
it?" 

"Livingston  is  a  very  rich  and  a  very  generous 
man.  Does  he  speak  of  Nelson  in  his  letter?" 

"No,  not  a  word.  'Pears  to  be  comin'  alone,  if 
he  comes.  I  dunno  what  to  make  of  it." 

369 


STRONGHEART 

"But  that's  easy,  Winterton.  You've  got  your 
Summer's  job,  whatever  happens.  J,  should  think 
you'd  like  the  proposition." 

"Hm-hm,"  murmured  Winterton,  dubiously. 

"So  Dick  asked  about  me,  did  he?"  said  Strong- 
heart,  after  a  long  pause. 

"Yes,  and  I  got  to  write  him  all  I  know." 

"Well,  why  don't  you?" 

"Huh!  I  wasn't  born  with  a  pen  in  my  hand, 
and  it's  a  whole  lot  to  put  into  a  letter.  I  don't  feel 
equal  to  it.  I  thought  mebbe  you'd  write  the  letter 
yourself." 

"Is  that  what  brought  you  to  the  reservation, 
Winterton  ?" 

"Hm-hm,  that's  just  it.  You  know  the  facts  bet- 
ter'n  I  do,  and  you  know  how  to  say  'em  on  paper. 
Like  enough  I  should  forget  half  of  'em,  and  the 
best  half  at  that." 

"But  there  isn't  so  much  to  say.  Just  tell  him 
I'm  alive  and  trying  to  do  my  duty  to  my  people. 
That's  all  there  is  to  it." 

"Wai,"  said  Winterton,  thoughtfully,  "I  dunno 
but  that's  so.  You  ain't  married,  and  you  ain't 
thinkin'  of  it,  be  ye?  £  thought  not.  That  seems 
to  be  the  whole  thing  after  all.  Just  write  that 
and  give  him  your  regards,  and  I  reckon  'twould 
do." 

"I  think,"  suggested  Strongheart,  "that  you'd 
better  cut  out  the  regards.  He  might  misunderstand 
that,  you  know.  He  wouldn't  dream  of  your  com- 
ing away  up  here  to  find  out  what  he  wants  to 

370 


STRONGHEART 

know.  Write  just  as  if  you  hadn't  seen  me  for  a 
year." 

"Why  not  write  yourself,  Soangetaha?" 

"Because  it's  your  letter.  He  asked  you.  Have 
you  written  him  that  you're  going  to  take  his  offer  ?" 

"Not  yet.     I  was  going  to." 

"Then  write  it  now,  and  when  you've  said  what 
you  want  to  on  that  matter,  I'll  tell  you  what  to 
write  about  me,  if  you  like." 

"That  would  be  a  monstrous  help,"  said  Winter- 
ton,  gratefully. 

Strongheart  provided  paper  and  pen,  and  for 
some  minutes  the  veteran  guide  labored  over  the  four 
lines  that  conveyed  his  acceptance  of  Livingston's 
offer  for  the  Summer.  "Reckon  I'm  ready,"  said 
he,  at  last.  Strongheart  dictated: 

"Soangetaha  is  living  at  the  reservation  with  his 
sister,  and  is  trying  to  do  his  duty  by  his  people. 
He  was  in  good  health  the  last  time  I  saw  him." 

Winterton  patiently  set  down  the  words  with 
only  one  interruption.  "Hold  on  a  minute,"  said  he ; 
"do  you  spell  people  with  two  e's  or  one?" 

"It  doesn't  matter,  Winterton,"  Strongheart  an- 
swered gravely.  "It's  your  letter,  and  he  will  under- 
stand it  if  you  take  your  choice." 

Winterton  choose  to  spell  it  "peeple,"  and  in  due 
course  signed  his  name  with  a  sigh  of  relief  that  a 
difficult  and  delicate  task  had  been  accomplished. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE   WHITE  SQUAW 

Dick  Livingston  started  westward  by  the  first 
convenient  train  after  the  receipt  of  Winterton's 
letter,  but  he  did  not  buy  a  ticket  for  the  Soo.  His 
destination  lay  much  further,  and  when  he  had  gone 
as  far  as  the  railroad  could  take  him,  he  had  still  a 
day's  journey  to  make  on  horseback.  He  began  it 
before  sunrise,  and,  by  dint  of  persistent  pushing, 
he  arrived  late  in  the  afternoon  at  Moose  River 
reservation.  .  There  he  inquired  for  the  school- 
house,  and  eventually  dismounted  before  a  building 
of  unhewn  logs.  The  door  was  open,  and  from  with- 
in came  the  sound  of  a  voice  he  knew,  a  sound  that 
set  his  blood  coursing,  and  caused  him  to  catch  his 
breath  with  a  gasp.  (Impulsively  he  lifted  his  hat,  as 
if  the  speaker  were  in  his  presence ;  he  stirred  as  if 
he  would  enter  the  open  door,  and  hesitated  as  a 
sensitive  traveler  might  who  found  himself  before 
a  holy  shrine ;  his  steps  lagged  in  spite  of  his  desire 
to  run.  So,  for  a  moment,  he  stood  still,  collecting 
himself  and  listening.  What  was  she  saying? 
There  could  be  no  mistaking  her  voice,  there  was 
none  like  it  in  the  world,  and  evidently  the  syllables 
were  uttered  with  the  delicate,  clean-cut  enunciation 
characteristic  of  her  speech,  but  such  syllables! 

372 


WAS   IT   TO   HEAR   THIS   THAT    HE    HAD   TRAVELED    SO    MAN!"    HUNDRED   MILES? 


STRONGHEART 

What  were  they?  What  meaning — of  a  sudden  one 
word  stood  out  distinct  and  clear  from  the  run  of 
gibberish,  and,  with  a  chill  at  his  heart,  he  recog- 
nized it:  "Kahween."  It  was  the  one  word  he  had 
distinguished  in  a  speech  by  Strongheart  when  he 
lay  'incapacitated  in  Kiwetin's  wigwam,  kahween — 
no!  WTas  it  to  hear  this  that  he  had  traveled  so 
many  hundred  miles?  Ah,  well,  he  had  anticipated 
it.  His  mind  was  made  up ;  it  was  only  his  foolish 
heart  that  had  presumed  to  excite  itself  with  hope. 
The  heart  had  been  stilled  for  more  than  two  years ; 
it  could  and  would  be  stilled  again.  Let  the  Ojib- 
way  negative  presage  what  it  might,  he  would  learn 
the  truth,  and  take  his  course  manfully  in  accord- 
ance with  it. 

There  was  a  rustling  of  soft-shod  feet,  and  two 
figures  appeared  in  the  doorway,  Dorothy  and  a 
seven-year  old  boy  whom  she  held  by  the  hand,  his 
chubby  cheeks  tear-stained,  his  lips  yet  pouting,  but 
his  eyes  instantly  taking  on  the  fulness  of  joy  at 
sight  of  the  stranger. 

"Why,  Dick!"  cried  Dorothy,  deserting  the  boy 
and  advancing  swiftly.  "Dick !"  she  repeated,  as  he 
took  her  hand  and  looked  into  her  eyes,  unable  to 
speak  a  word.  "I  am  so  glad  to  see  you,  Dick. 
How  good  pf  you  to  look  me  up!  Have  you  just 
arrived  ?" 

Livingston  pointed  to  his  horse,  whose  sleek 
flanks  gave  glistening  evidence  of  hard  and  recent 
ridings.  "I've  been  out  of  the  saddle  only  once  in  the 
last  twelve  hours,"  he  said. 

373 


STRONGHEART 

"Then  you  and  your  horse  both  need  rest  and  re- 
freshment. The  animal  should  certainly  be  stabled 
at  once.  Oh !  that  can  be  done.  The  reservation 
doesn't  boast  of  a  hotel,  but  the  trader,  at  whose 
house  I  boarded  when  I  first  came  here,  always  con- 
trives to  look  after  the  rare  travelers  who  come  this 
way.  He  has  a  spare  room  for  wanderers  like  yourself." 

"I  am  indeed  a  wanderer,  Dorothy." 

She  did  not  respond  at  once,  but  addressed  the 
lad  in  his  own  language.  There  was  a  rapt  grin  on 
his  face  as  he  listened,  and  when  she  had  concluded 
he  glanced  shyly  at  Livingston  and  reached  his 
hand  out  for  the  horse's  bridle. 

"I  told  him,"  said  Dorothy,  "to  lead  your  horse  to 
the  stable  and  tell  the  trader  that  a  friend  of  mine 
has  come.  That  will  assure  proper  care  for  the  horse, 
and  we  will  go  down  to  the  trader's  together  after 
supper,  which  I  want  you  to  take  in  my  house. 
Does  that  plan  suit  you?" 

"Right  down  to  the  ground,  Dorothy.  What's 
your  noble  young  red  man's  name?" 

"That  is  Washkash,  my  favorite  charge,  if  I  have 
a  favorite.  He  is  the  brightest  and  most  mischie- 
vous boy  in  the  school.  I  had  to  keep  him  after  the 
others  were  dismissed  today  to  chasten  his  dawning 
mind  with  a  lecture." 

"Your  youngsters  have  the  same  conception  of 
the  relation  between  fun  and  school  that  white  boys 
have,  it  seems." 

"Of  course,  Dick.  Would  you  expect  them  to  be 
anything  but  human?" 

374 


STRONGHEART 

"No,  I  wouldn't,  not  after  knowing — not  after  my 
own  observations  of  some  years  ago." 

"Tell  me  all  the  news,  Dick,"  she  said  quickly,  but 
without  haste,  thus  covering  the  sudden  embarrass- 
ment that  had  caused  him  to  stumble  in  his  speech. 
"Or,  perhaps,"  she  added,  "you  don't  know  any.  33 
heard  of  your  journey  round  the  world.  Have  you 
been  back  long?" 

"Two  or  three  weeks.  I  only  waited  till  I  got  cer- 
tain information  before  I  started  for  this  place." 

"Then,  if  you  were  seeking  information,  you  have 
a  budget  of  news." 

"Some.  The  most  important  item  was  your  pre- 
cise whereabouts." 

"Well,  that  happens  to  be  known  to  me.  Tell  me 
something  I  don't  know." 

"Have  you  heard  about  Molly?" 

"Only  that  she  and  Billy  Saunders  were  married. 
Cards  reached  me,  and  one  sweet  letter  from  her 
forwarded  by  my  mother.  After  that  I  suppose  she 
was  too  busy  with  the  duties  of  her  new  life  to  keep 
up  a  correspondence,  and  indeed  I  did  not  expect 
her  to.  I  had  deliberately  shut  myself  out  of  my 
former  world,  and  almost  preferred  that  my  old 
friends  should  not  write." 

"Molly  says  that  she  understood  it  that  way.  I 
can  assure  you,  Dorothy,  Molly  wouldn't  have  gone 
back  on  you." 

"Oh !    I  never  doubted  her.    But  what  of  her?" 

"Her  son—" 

"Oh,  Dick!  Molly  has  a  baby?" 
375 


"Three  months  old.  Billy's  pride  is  so  great  that 
all  outdoors  is  strained  to  hold  him.  He's  already 
picked  out  the  young  gentleman's  room  at  Colum- 
bia and  says  he's  going  to  put  him  into  football 
training  this  Fall." 

Dorothy  laughed  delightedly,  that  wholesome 
laugh  he  knew  only  too  well,  the  laugh  that  "took 
the  edge  off  her  altruism  and  proved  her  sane,"  as  he 
himself  had  put  it  in  the  old  days.  "What  do  they 
call  him?"  she  asked. 

"I  regret  to  say  they've  handicapped  him  by  nam- 
ing him  Richard." 

"Handicapped !    Why,  Dick !" 

"Well,  I  haven't  been  such  a  great  success,  have  J, 
Dorothy  ?" 

"Molly  must  be  very  happy,"  said  Dorothy. 
"You've  seen  my  mother,  I  suppose?" 

"It  was  she  who  gave  me  your  address." 

"To  be  sure,  for  she's  the  only  one  who  knows  it, 
except  my  lawyer.  As  I  am  no  longer  an  infant  in 
the  eyes  of  the  law,  I  have  to  have  a  lawyer  to  look 
after  my  possessions.  He  sends  me  an  accounting 
at  intervals,  and  money  when  I  ask  for  it." 

There  was  a  momentary  pause  in  the  conversa- 
tion, and  then  Livingston  said,  "I  ran  across  Frank 
in  London." 

"How  is  he?"  asked  Dorothy,  quickly. 

"In  perfect  health,  it  seemed  to  me.  He  had  just 
won  a  medal  in  a  photographic  exhibition." 

"That  must  have  pleased  him,"  and  she  breathed 
a  sigh  that  did  not  escape  her  companion's  attention. 

376 


STRONGHEART 

"Don't  you  hear  from  Frank  at  all  ?"  he  asked. 

"No,  Dick.  I  am  sorry,  but  Frank  could  not  ap- 
prove my  course,  you  know — " 

"And  so  he  cut  you !"  exclaimed  Livingston,  in- 
dignantly. 

"Wouldn't  it  be  quite  as  fair  to  say  that  I  cut  him  ?" 
she  returned  gently.  "I  insisted  on  the  unconven- 
tional, he  stood  for  the  proprieties.  Action  was 
wholly  on  my  part.  I  knew  his  displeasure  and  de- 
liberately brooked  it.  I  am  sorry,  but  I  could  not 
do  otherwise,  and  I  have  nothing  but  kindly  feel- 
ings for  my  brother." 

"Well,  I  shouldn't  expect  anything  else  of  you, 
Dorothy.  I  told  Frank  I  meant  to  look  you  up." 

"Did  you?  Did  he  send  any  message?"  She 
spoke  with  impulsive  eagerness,  and  Livingston 
was  suddenly  embarrassed.  What  Frank  had  said 
was,  "I  hope  you'll  bring  the  silly  girl  to  her 
senses,"  and  Livingston  had  no  mind  to  quote  that 
to  her. 

"He  seemed  interested  in  the  idea,"  said  Living- 
ston, lamely,  and  Dorothy  quickly  saved  him  the 
necessity  of  inventing  a  message. 

"I  think  I  know  pretty  well  what  Frank  would 
say,"  she  said,  and  laughed  a  little.  "For  brother 
and  sister  we  are  very  different,  aren't  we?  This  is 
my  house,  Dick.  Unless  my  little  maid  has  met 
with  an  accident  we  shall  find  supper  ready." 

They  had  been  walking  along  a  trail  past  scat- 
tered cabins,  and  Dorothy  led  him  to  one  quite  like 
the  rest  in  dimensions  and  quality;  but  it  had  a 

377 


STRONGHEART 

touch  of  civilization  apparent  at  first  glance,  for 
there  were  cultivated  flowers  in  the  yard  before  it, 
there  were  white  curtains  in  the  windows,  and  the 
steps  of  the  door  were  scrupulously  clean.  There 
Dorothy  lived  alone,  save  for  the  companionship  of 
an  Ojibway  girl  of  fourteen,  or  thereabouts,  who  was 
her  servant.  Even  when  he  had  crossed  the  thresh- 
old it  was  hard  for  Livingston  to  realize  where  he 
was,  Dorothy's  decision  to  devote  her  life  to  Indian 
education  having  appealed  to  him,  as  to  the  mem- 
bers of  her  family,  as  preposterously  romantic  and 
impracticable.  He  had  necessarily  stood  apart  from 
the  storm  that  raged  in  the  Nelson's  home  after 
Strongheart's  departure  from  college.  Frank  had 
spoken  little  of  it,  only  enough  to  show  that  his 
friendship  for  Strongheart  had  turned  into  bitter, 
unrelenting  hostility,  and  Dorothy  had  kept  aloof 
from  Dick  until  it  was  all  over,  and  when  that  time 
came,  Dorothy  had  gone.  Jn  all -his  long  journey 
around  the  world,  Livingston  had  repeatedly  said  to 
himself  that  when  he  returned  he  would  find  Doro- 
thy again  in  the  familiar  atmosphere  of  the  city, 
doing  good,  and  enjoying  life,  chastened  probably 
by  her  more  or  less  brief  experience  in  the  wilds.  It 
was  a  shock  to  him,  therefore,  to  discover  from  his 
meeting  with  Frank  in  London,  that  brother  and 
sister  were  alienated,  and  that  Dorothy  was  still  an 
exile  "among  savages,"  as  Frank  expressexi  it.  In 
New  York,  Livingston  sought  Mrs.  Nelson  within 
an  hour  of  his  landing. 

"Do  go  to  her,"  said  the  mother,  with  a  sigh  of 
378 


STRON  GHEART 

respectable  despair.  "I  have  quite  given  her  up, 
and  if  anybody  can  bring  her  back  to  civilization,  it 
will  be  you,  Dick." 

And  Dick  had  delayed  his  departure  only  until  he 
had  heard  from  Winterton. 

So,  this  was  her  home  among  "savages."  Every 
inch  of  space  within  the  cabin  breathed  of  refine- 
ment. The  simple  touches  which  a  man  feels  but 
cannot  define  were  there,  from  the  freshly  cut  flow- 
ers on  the  table  to  the  spotless  white  apron  the  lit- 
tle maid  wore  when  serving  the  food.  Dorothy  was 
vivacious,  and  manifestly  habituated  to  her  sur- 
roundings. Only  now  and  again  was  there  a  pass- 
ing wistfulness  in  her  glance  to  suggest  remem- 
brance of  other  things,  and  this  came  only  when 
some  remark  of  her  visitor's  tended  to  awaken 
recollection.  He  was  chary  of  such  remarks  until  the 
meal  was  over,  and  they  sat  in  the  yard  before  the 
house,  he  smoking,  she  busy  with  needlework.  Then, 
said  he,  "Tell  me,  Dorothy,  are  you  contented  here?" 

"Do  I  not  seem  so?"  she  responded,  bending  over 
her  wrork  so  that  he  could  not  see  her  eyes.  The 
question  had  to  come ;  she  knew  that,  and  she  had 
staved  it  off  as  long  as  was  practicable. 

"That  is  not  quite  the  frank  answer  I  should 
expect  from  you,"  said  he. 

Thus  challenged,  she  looked  up  and  held  him  with 
her  eyes.  "I  do  not  regret  leaving  home,  Dick,"  she 
said.  "I  wish  devoutly  that  I  might  have  the  sym- 
pathy of  my  mother  and  brother,  not  to  say  their 
approval,  but  that  was  not  to  be.  My  life  must  be 

379 


STRONGHEART 

useful.  Here,  while  I  do  not  accomplish  all  that  I 
would  like  to,  for  the  task  is  too  great  for  one  per- 
son, I  am  at  least  doing  something.  I  think  my 
influence  is  for  the  good  of  the  people,  and  even  if  J 
were  to  leave  them  now,  I  should  be  able  to  count 
some  permanent  marks  of  progress,  for  my  money 
has  enabled  me  to  do  material  things  that  perhaps 
partly  atone  for  my  failure  to  reach  the  people  in  the 
best  way,  that  is,  through  their  minds.  You  asked 
if  I  were  contented.  No,  not  wholly,  but  I  would 
not  go  back,  Dick." 

"You  would  spare  me  asking  you  to  go  back  with 
me,  and  for  me,  Dorothy." 

"Yes,  Dick.  I  hoped  we  were  again  on  the  level 
of  friendship,  and  that  your  travels  had  dimmed  the 
dream  you  once  cherished." 

"It  hasn't,  Dorothy,  but  it  has  given  me  some 
sense,  a  truer  view  of  life,  I  hope." 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then,  "Dorothy, 
I'm  not  going  to  ask  you  to  go  back.  Let  us  be 
friends.  There  will  always  be  a  room  in  my  heart 
where  you  will  dwell  alone,  but  I  will  keep  it  closed 
as  far  as  may  be — even  to  myself.  I  asked  you  if 
you  were  contented,  and  I  understand  most  of  your 
answer.  Tell  me  as  a  friend,  do  you  still  think  of 
Strongheart  as  you  used  to?" 

The  color  rose  to  her  brow,  and  again  she  bent 
over  her  work. 

"Am  I  one  to  change,  Dick?"  she  murmured. 

"No!  you  are  not,  and  I  should  have  known  it. 
Have  you  ever  heard  from  him  ?" 

380 


STRON GHEART 

"Never.  Strongheart  gave  me  to  understand  be- 
fore he  left  for  his  tribe,  that  it  must  be  all  or 
nothing.  He  was  sure  he  could  not  give  himself 
entirely  to  his  people  if  he  kept  in  touch  with  me, 
and  I  believed  him.  He  was  right.  It  was  a  sacri- 
fice that  could  not  be  half  made.  It  had  to  be  genu- 
ine and  complete." 

"And  you  think  it  was  a  sacrifice?" 

"Strongheart  loved  me,  Dick." 

There  was  no  need  of  further  questions,  for  Liv- 
ingston had  only  to  look  into  his  own  heart  to  know 
the  measure  of  the  Ojibway's  sacrifice.  He  looked 
at  the  darkening  pines,  the  white  trail  that  disap- 
peared beneath  their  shadows,  the  golden-edged 
clouds  of  the  sunset,  and  at  the  busy  fingers  and 
absorbed  face  of  the  woman  beside  him. 

"Is  it  far  to  the  trader's?"  he  asked.  "I  think 
perhaps  I  should  make  my  way  there  now." 

"You  must  be  tired,"  said  she,  laying  aside  her 
work,  and  rising.  "I  will  have  my  maid  go  with  us 
to  help  bring  back  some  things  I  want  at  the  store." 

They  talked  of  the  reservation  on  the  way,  Doro- 
thy telling  bits  of  family  histories  as  they  passed 
one  cabin  after  another,  or  as  they  met  men  and 
women  on  the  trail.  The  little  maid  walked  close 
behind.  The  clouds  cast  off  their  gold  and  silver 
ornaments,  the  stars  began  to  peer  at  them,  and 
twinkling  lights  appeared  here  and  there  on  the 
plain.  They  came  to  the  trader's  store  and  dwell- 
ing, where  Livingston  found  that  he  was  expected. 

"Shall  I  see  you  tomorrow,  Dick?"  asked  Doro- 
381 


STRONGHEART 

thy,  when  her  purchases  were  made  and  she  was 
ready  to  start  homeward. 

"Not  tomorrow,"  said  he.  "I  have  another  long 
journey  to  make,  but  you  shall  hear  from  me  soon, 
and  I  shall  hope  to  see  you  again  in  the  Fall." 

They  said  good-bye  as  friends,  and  Livingston, 
standing  on  the  stoop  of  the  store,  strained  his  eyes 
after  her  until  she  and  the  little  maid  merged  in  the 
darkness.  Before  daybreak  he  was  in  the  saddle 
again,  hurrying  eastward. 


382 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE    HORNS   OF   A    MOOSE 

Winterton  met  Livingston  at  the  railway  station 
in  the  Soo.  "I  got  your  telegram,"  he  said,  after 
the  handshake,  "Soangetaha  ain't  at  the  reservation 
just  now." 

"So?"  exclaimed  Livingston,  disappointed,  "where 
is  he,  then?" 

"Up  to  the  Summer  village.  He  don't  go  there 
now  fo»  the  fun  of  it,  as  he  used  to,  he's  too  busy, 
but  some  of  the  people  are  up  there.  Tears  a  fam- 
ily feud  broke  out  and  they  had  to  send  for  the 
Chief  to  settle  it." 

"A  feud!     Something  serious,  Steve?" 

"Reckon  not.  They  ain't  usually.  Some  of  the 
squaws  get  to  scrappin'  'bout  some  gossip  of  one 
kind  or  another,  and  'fore  you  know  it  the  men  get 
dragged  in,  and  there's  hell  to  pay.  There's  never 
no  bloodshed,  if  that's  what  you  mean  by  serious, 
'cept  as  some  buck  gets  his  nose  cracked  by  an- 
other buck's  fist.  Sometimes  the  squaws  heave 
rocks  at  each  others'  wigwams,  and  a  dish  or  two 
gets  broke,  but  it's  mostly  talk  back  and  forth,  and 
threats,  like  they  was  going  to  take  the  warpath 

383 


STRONGHEART 

against  the  Sioux.  The  chiefs  generally  let  such 
ructions  run  their  course,  but  when  they're  called  on 
to  settle  things,  they  have  to  act,  and  Chief  Soan- 
getaha  don't  generally  wait  to  be  called  in.  He  gets 
his  old  Indian  up  and  makes  'em  take  notice  pretty 
sudden  like.  There's  no  disobeyin'  Soangetaha 
when  he  puts  his  foot  down  and  says  things  final." 
"I  think  we'd  better  start  for  the  Summer  village 
at  once,  Steve.  The  fact  that  Strongheart  has  a 
row  on  his  hands  needn't  make  any  difference  to  my 
errand.  Can  we  catch  up  with  him,  do  you  think?" 
"Wai,  he  started  last  night.  At  the  worst  we 
might  meet  him  on  the  way  back." 
"Are  you  ready  for  a  quick  start?" 
"Hm-hm.  I  done  all  your  telegram  said." 
It  was  then  noon,  and  within  an  hour,  equipped 
for  a  very  long  journey,  they  had  left  the  Soo  be- 
hind them.  Shortly  after  daybreak  on  the  third 
morning,  they  threaded  a  group  of  familiar  islands 
in  the  inland  lake,  and  Livingston,  at  the  bow,  saw 
the  conical  dwellings  of  the  Ojibways  on  the  distant 
shore,  and  the  wavering  smoke  of  a  score  of  camp- 
fires.  His  heart  swelled  with  memories,  and  for  a 
moment  his  spirit  was  in  rebellion,  for  it  was  there, 
on  that  pleasant  shore,  that  he  had  bent  all  his 
enthusiastic  energies  to  the  accomplishment  of  a 
plan  that  had  borne  fruit  in  fixing  Dorothy's  love 
upon  another.  He  was  conscious  of  an  impulse  to 
back  water,  and  he  wondered  if  Winterton  noticed 
the  momentary  sluggishness  of  the  bow  paddle?  It 
was  no  more  than  momentary,  this  involuntary  re- 

384 


STRONGHEART 

sistance  of  the  heart  to  a  course  that  the  mma  nad 
dictated,  and  the  canoe  sped  onward.  Mind,  that  is 
to  say,  well  considered  judgment,  was  in  command 
of  Dick  Livingston,  and  had  been  for  long.  The  in- 
terval occupied  in  circling  the  globe  had  been  one  of 
preparation;  the  meeting  with  Nelson  in  London 
had  been  the  crisis,  and  then  and  there  he  had  de- 
termined his  procedure,  his  precise  action  to  depend 
only  on  the  precise  state  of  affairs  concerning  which 
he  had  been  seeking  information  from  Mrs.  Nelson, 
from  Dorothy,  and  from  Winterton.  In  view  of  the 
latter's  meagre  message,  it  was  now  necessary  to 
learn  something  from  Strongheart. 

The  approach  of  the  travelers  was  comparatively 
unnoticed  in  the  village,  for  few  were  stirring  at 
that  early  hour,  but  there  was  one  who  caught  sight 
of  the  canoe  as  soon  as  it  had  cleared  the  islands, 
and  who  glanced  at  it  with  increasing  curiosity 
from  time  to  time  as  he  busied  himself  with  prep- 
arations for  departure.  Strongheart  had  traveled 
hard,  too.  He  had  arrived  on  the  previous  day,  had 
composed  the  quarrel  before  the  night  was  old,  and 
now,  having  allowed  himself  a  brief  respite  for  sleep, 
was  making  ready  to  return  to  the  reservation. 
There  was  no  hail,  no  waving  of  a  signal  to  suggest 
the  identity  of  the  oncomers,  but  presently  the 
Chief's  sharp  eyes  distinguished  Winterton,  and 
then  he  inferred  the  approach  of  Livingston.  Who 
else  could  it  be? 

So  it  happened  that  the  white  man  who  de- 
liberately sought  a  meeting,  had  no  undue  advan- 

385 


STRONGHEART 

tage  in  taking  the  Indian  by  surprise.  Strongheart 
kept  at  his  work,  thinking,  wondering,  and  Living- 
ston kept  at  his  paddle,  with  not  a  little  last-minute 
doubt  as  to  how  he  should  greet  his  former  friend. 
At  the  proper  time  Strongheart  gave  over  his  work 
and  went  to  the  landing  place  to  assist  in  bringing 
the  canoe  to  shore.  The  silent  Mukwa  was  there, 
too,  and  both  held  the  craft  by  the  gunwale  while 
Winterton  and  Livingston  disembarked.  Meantime 
there  had  been  such  an  exchange  of  "bozhos"  be- 
tween the  parties  as  might  have  betokened  a  meet- 
ing after  a  day's  absence. 

Livingston,  once  on  shore,  dropped  his  paddle, 
and  turned  to  Strongheart.  The  Chief  was  looking 
a  doubtful  inquiry  at  him.  Their  eyes  met  in  honest 
challenge,  and  there  was  a  slight  pause  that  even 
the  unimaginative  Winterton  perceived;  then  the 
old-time  comradeship,  the  old-time  mutual  trust  and 
admiration,  the  old-time  affection,  struck  down  the 
barrier  at  a  blow;  two  hands  were  extended  as  by 
one  impulse;  "Dick!"  and  "Strongheart!"  sounded 
together,  and  each  man  came  nigh  to  crushing  the 
other's  fingers  to  pulp.  A  Canada  bird  shouted  his 
morning  song  from  a  near-by  tree,  and  old  Winter- 
ton  rubbed  the  back  of  his  hand  thoughtfully  across 
his  chin,  and  wondered  slowly  just  what  it  was  he 
had  been  privileged  to  witness. 

"I've  come  to  see  you,"  said  Livingston. 

"Yes?"  returned  Strongheart,  with  an  apologetic 
glance  around ;  "the  old  wigwam  you  occupied  is 
not  set  up  this  Summer.  I  have  no  dwelling  here — " 

386 


STRONGHEART 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  Livingston  interposed.  "I'm 
not  seeking  your  hospitality,  old  chap.  Come  up 
the  trail  a  bit  with  me." 

A  few  paces  took  them  beyond  the  range  of 
others'  eyes  and  ears,  and  in  the  edge  of  the  forest 
Livingston  halted. 

"Strongheart,"  he  said,  "I'm  ready  now  to  take 
back  all  I  said  the  night  when  I  behaved  so  like  a 
cad." 

"All,  Dick?" 

"Every  word.  I'm  older,  old  chap,  but  that  isn't 
it.  I've  been  globe-trotting  since  then,  and  I've 
seen  all  manner  of  people.  I  should  be  a  fool  in- 
deed if  that  sort  of  observation  didn't  open  my  eyes 
some,  but  that  isn't  it  either,  that  is,  not  all  of  it. 
I  have  been  helped  by  travel,  I  think,  but  there's 
something  else,  something  native  to  myself,  I  sup- 
pose, that  was  late  in  developing — hang  it!  I  can't 
very  well  make  a  speech  about  it." 

"Don't  try,  Dick.  What  do  X  care  for  your  anal- 
ysis if  you  really  mean  that  you  take  back  all? 
All!  You  can't  imagine  how  I  have  wished  and 
hoped,  yes,  I  have  dared  to  hope  that  some  day  you 
would." 

"But  that  isn't  enough,"  said  Livingston,  hastily. 
"I  had  my  unhappy  share  in  keeping  apart  two 
persons  whom  God  Almighty  had  raised  up  and 
fitted  the  one  for  the  other." 

His  voice  shook,  and  Strongheart  said,  "Don't, 
Dick !  Not  only  does  it  bring  back  the  memory  of 
vain  dreams,  but  it  is  unfair  to  yourself.  My  own 

387 


STRONGHEART 

people  were  as  much  to  blame  as  yours.  Whichever 
way  I  turned,  I  confronted  the  same  unyielding 
prejudice  of  race." 

"Yes,  I  heard  something  of  that,  but,  see  here, 
Strongheart,  I've  got  to  ask  you  a  brutally  frank 
question.  Do  you  feel  toward  Dorothy  as  you  used 
to?" 

"Dick,"  said  Strongheart,  "can  one  who  loves 
Dorothy  change?" 

"No!  No!  He  couldn't!  Do  you  know  where  she 
is?" 

"I  do  not.  I  had  to  shut  her  out  of  my  life,  else 
she  would  have  lingered  in  my  hopes,  and  that 
would  have  impeded  the  work  I  was  called  on  to 
do.  She  understood  that.  Is  she  not  in  New 
York?" 

"If  she  were  would  you  go  to  see  her?" 

"Certainly  not,  Dick.  Don't  be  unkind  to  me,  my 
friend.  It  will  do  no  good  to  torment  me — but," 
and  his  eyes  took  on  a  sudden  expression  of  fear, 
"if  she  were  ill — Dick!  is  that  it?  Is  she  suffering, 
and  does  she  need  me?" 

"Easy,  old  chap;  she  is  in  the  most  abundant 
good  health,  but  whether  she  needs  you — well,  I 
have  my  opinion.  Now  look  here.  The  race  prej- 
udice of  the  whites  can  be  defied.  I  don't  know 
whether  that  of  the  Indian  can,  or  can  not,  and  that's 
not  my  affair.  That's  up  to  you,  and  you  must 
manage  it  as  best  you  can,  but  this  is  it,  Strong- 
heart  :  I've  made  it  my  business  to  interfere  in  your 
affairs  so  far  as  to  come  here  and  tell  you  that 

388 


STRONGHEART 

Dorothy  is  teaching  the  Indians  at  the  Moose  River 
reser — " 

"Moose  River!"  shouted  Strongheart,  starting  as 
if  he  had  been  struck  by  a  rifle  ball.  "Moose 
River?  Dick!  did  you  say  Moose  River?"  and  he 
brought  both  his  hands  violently  down  on  Living- 
ston's shoulders. 

"Yes,"  replied  Livingston,  staggering,  "Moose 
River.  I  s'pose  you  know  where  'tis  ?" 

"The  White  Squaw!"  exclaimed  Strongheart, 
under  his  breath,  and  looking  far,  far  away. 

Livingston  was  puzzled,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
and,  after  a  moment  of  helpless  staring  at  the  rapt 
gaze  of  the  Indian,  he  said,  "That's  what  I  came  to 
say,  Strongheart.  It's  now  up  to  you,  and  Winter- 
ton  and  :I  will  go  on.  We're  bound  on  an  all-Sum- 
mer trip  to  the  north." 

"Ah !"  and  Strongheart  returned  to  the  imme- 
diate scene,  "you  are  going  on?  Then  you  won't 
mind  if  I  go  on  also?  I  was  getting  ready  to  start, 
and — Dick,  do  you  know  what  you  have  done  for  me  ?" 

"I  hope  so,"  replied  Livingston,  with  a  sigh, 
"honestly,  I  hope  so." 

They  began  to  retrace  their  steps  to  the  shore, 
Strongheart  leading.  He  almost  broke  into  a  run. 
"Mukwa!  Mukwa!  the  canoe,  quick!"  he  called. 
"You  see,  Dick,"  he  added,  "there's  only  one  train 
a  day  from  the  Soo  that  will  take  me  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Moose  River,  and  if  I  push  hard,  I  may  be 
able  to  save  a  day.  Do  you  understand?'* 


389 


STRONGHEART 

Dorothy  was  at  supper,  alone,  save  for  the  little 
maid,  when  Strongheart  appeared  in  her  doorway. 
All  the  color  fled  from  her  face,  her  hand  fell  nerve- 
less on  the  table;  if  he  had  spoken  at  once,  she 
might  not  have  known  how  to  reply;  but  his  heart 
was  in  his  throat,  the  words  he  had  prepared  to  say 
seemed  so  inadequate,  so  unnecessary,  for  it  was 
enough  at  the  moment  to  be  conscious  of  nearness 
to  her;  so  she  had  a  little  time  to  recover,  and  she 
arose  with  one  hand  outstretched,  the  other  resting 
on  the  chair  back,  for  she  dared  not  trust  herself  to 
step  across  the  narrow  space  that  separated  them. 

"Strongheart,"  she  said,  bravely  trying  to  speak 
with  the  naturalness  of  friendship,  and  the  unnatu- 
ralness  therefore,  of  agitated  love,  I  did  not  expect 
you — of  course  I  am  glad  to  see  you — won't  you 
come  in?" 

"I  came  to  get  you,"  said  he,  without  stirring. 

Her  hand  dropped  to  her  side.  She  did  not,  or 
would  not,  understand. 

"Dick  Livingston  called  on  me,  too,"  she  said 
hurriedly.  "It  was  only  a  few  days  ago.  I  wouldn't 
have  thought  to  see  another  of  my  old  friends  in  the 
same  Summer.  He  said  I  should  hear  from  him 
soon." 

"He  sent  me  to  you,"  said  Strongheart.  "That 
was  what  he  meant." 

"Do  you  mean  he  sent  a  message?" 

"No,  he  sent  me.  He  told  me  where  you  were 
and  what  you  were  doing.  Dorothy,  I  have  come 
for  you." 

390 


STRONGHEART 

He  crossed  the  threshold  and  held  out  both 
hands.  She  had  to  use  both  hers  to  overcome  her 
trembling,  and  she  looked  at  him  with  fear  in  her 
eyes.  She  could  not  affect  to  misunderstand  longer. 

"But,  Strongheart,"  she  whispered,  "your  peo- 
pie-" 

"They  have  chosen  you  for  my  bride,"  said  he. 
"Do  I  seem  to  rave?  Dorothy,  it  is  true.  Your 
fame  as  a  teacher  and  friend  of  the  Indian  has 
spread  to  the  home  of  my  people.  They  tell  admir- 
ing stories  about  the  White  Squaw  at  Moose  River. 
Black  Eagle  and  the  old  men  told  me  about  you, 
and  asked  me  to  make  you  my  wife.  They  did  not 
know  your  name,  and  how  could  I  suspect  it?  I 
put  them  off,  and  it  was  not  until  Dick  came  to  me 
that  I  understood  that  the  long  trial  of  love  was 
over,  that  loneliness  and  failure  might  vanish  from 
my  life,  giving  way  to  love  and  victory.  Oh,  Dor- 
othy !  I  have  toiled  hard,  I  have  kept  my  pledge  to 
give  all  to  my  people.  Let  me  now  give  them  more! 
Come  with  me !  My  people  mourn  because  their 
Chief  is  unhappy ;  he  is  unhappy  because  he  cannot 
accomplish  alone  what  will  be  assured  with  your 
aid.  I  need  you,  Dorothy,  my  people  need  you — " 

He  could  not  tell  the  tumult  wrought  by  doubt 
changing  to  joy  as  she  listened;  how  her  first 
thought  inevitably  had  been  that  love  had  broken 
down  his  purpose,  and  how  she  feared  that,  in  spite 
of  his  apostasy,  he  would  win  her,  and  how  the  dem- 
onstration of  his  loyalty  to  both  his  people  and  her 
opened  up  such  prospects  of  happiness  as  she  had 

391 


STRONGHEART 

schooled  herself  to  believe  were  not  for  her.  He 
only  saw  that  she  was  trembling,  that  her  eyes  filled 
with  tears,  and  thinking,  quite  mistakenly  but  sin- 
cerely, that  she  was  about  to  faint,  he  strode  to- 
ward her.  She  met  him  half  way  and  sank  con- 
sciously, voluntarily,  into  his  unfolding  arms.  "Ah, 
Strongheart,  my  love !  and  I  need  you !"  she  said. 

And  so  it  came  about  one  Summer  day  that 
Moose  River  was  in  tears,  for  the  beloved  White 
Squaw,  the  Lady  of  the  Good  H?art,  went  away, 
never  to  return.  The  people  knew  what  had  hap- 
pened, and  knew,  therefore,  that  the  end  had  to  be 
so,  for  when  a  woman  loves,  must  she  not  follow 
her  husband?  It  is  ever  so  among  all  people  of  all 
races,  and  the  Indians,  who  had  come  to  revere 
Dorothy,  smiled  back  their  sorrow  and  wished  her 
joy.  And  so,  too,  it  came  about  that  there  was 
rejoicing  on  that  other  reservation  far  eastward; 
for  the  people  there  knew  that  at  last  their  Chief 
would  be  happy,  and  in  his  happiness  they  foresaw 
their  own  permanent  benefit  from  his  wisdom  and 
guidance.  The  little  church  could  not  hold  a  tithe 
of  those  who  insisted  on  their  right  to  see  the  cere- 
mony that  gave  the  Chief  a  bride,  and  the  missionary 
accordingly  went  forth  into  the  open  field  where 
was  the  stump  of  a  great  tree  to  serve  as  an  altar; 
and  there  Strongheart  and  Dorothy  were  married 
in  the  presence  of  the  whole  tribe. 

It  was  a  holiday  for  all,  and  much  singing  and 
dancing  had  been  arranged  to  fill  in  the  evening  by 
the  light  of  a  huge  camp-fire ;  a  programme  that  was 

392 


STRONGHEART 

faithfully  and  pleasantly  carried  out ;  but  before  the 
fun  began,  a  stranger  came  to  the  reservation,  an 
O  jib  way,  whom  none  there  had  ever  seen  before. 
His  dress  and  speech  both  proclaimed  him  one  of 
those  uncounted  people  of  the  north  whom  no  per- 
suasion of  the  government  can  induce  to  leave  their 
forest  homes  and  take  up  the  comparatively  con- 
ventional life  of  the  reservation.  He  was  bowed 
under  a  burden  consisting  of  the  antlers  of  a  moose. 

"Is  your  Chief  called  Soangetaha?"  he  asked  of 
the  first  he  met,  and  when  they  told  him  yes,  "I  was 
sent,"  said  he,  "by  a  white  man  named  Dick,  who  is 
hunting  in  the  north.  These  are  the  horns  of  the 
first  moose  he  ever  shot.  He  bade  me  bring  them 
here,  and,  if  Chief  Soangetaha  is  married,  to  give 
them  to  him  and  his  wife  as  a  wedding  present.  Is 
your  Chief  married  ?  For,  if  not — " 

They  did  not  let  him  state  his  alternative,  but 
took  him  at  once  to  the  Chief's  house,  where  he  laid 
down  his  burden  and  repeated  his  message. 


END 


393 


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